


Time for Whump, Boys!

by SylvanFreckles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Dean Winchester, Abusive John Winchester, Angel Headcanon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Angels Making Stupid Choices, Badass Castiel, Branding, Buried Alive, Burning, Burns, CPR, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cursed Sam Winchester, Dark Jack Kline, Demonic Possession, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Aid, Gen, Humor, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Rowena MacLeod, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, John Winchester's B- parenting, Lucifer is a Little Shit, Mother Hen Dean Winchester, Paternal Sam Winchester, Physical Abuse, Platonic Bed Sharing, Poison, Revenge, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Sick Castiel (Supernatural), Soulless Jack Kline, Stabbing, The Darkness - Freeform, Vampires, Verbal Abuse, Whumptober 2018, season 12 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23956177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: Read some whump while the world burns around you!Working through the 2018 Whumptober prompts. Got off track a little due to some serious health problems, but things might be looking up.Just to warn you, some of these are pretty dark.Chapter Fifteen: Manhandled - After Lucifer's escape from Asmodeus, Cas literally crash-lands in the bunker. Luckily the Winchesters are there to pick up the pieces. (Sequel to previous chapter)
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Lucifer (Supernatural), Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Sam Winchester, Jody Mills & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Sam Winchester
Comments: 85
Kudos: 179
Collections: Sam Winchester WHUMP





	1. Stabbed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, with thirty-one more scoops of whump for your reading pleasure! These don't have any real setting, except where strictly noted, but they are set while the boys are living in the bunker. 
> 
> I was originally trying to do this for the month of May, but with everything going on right now (like Animal Crossing...I mean Labyrinth Box) I wanted to give myself more time. So I'll be trying to post a chapter every other day. 
> 
> Some of these get pretty dark, but I'll have warnings in front of the chapters. I think chapter four is the worst. 
> 
> As always, everyone gets whumped here, but Cas kind of gets the most.

“Ouch!” Sam pulled his hand away from the back of the couch to study his fingers. “The hell?”

“Sammy.” On the other side of the witch's (extremely tacky) living room, Dean was staring at him blankly. “Dude, just once?”

Sam glared at his older brother and leaned closer to one of the lamps to get a better look at his finger. “There was a splinter in the cushion, Dean.”

“I keep telling you, that baby-soft lotion you use is only gonna make your hands too delicate for our line of work,” the older Winchester drawled as he peeked into a ornate box on the mantle. He pulled a face and dropped the box back, moving on to the next tacky knick-knack.

“Coming from the guy who buys Egyptian cotton sheets,” Sam retorted. He shook out his hand, grimaced, and brought it under the light again. Damn, it still stung, and with the kind of pain that radiated out into his entire hand.

“Hey, don't go dissing the sheets I buy,” Dean said, peering into an umbrella stand. “Anyway, I don't see you refusing to sleep on 'em. Dammit, where is this thing? How many places can you hide a cursed necklace anyway?”

Sam grunted and turned his back to Dean, flexing his fingers with a wince. He pulled a flashlight out and played the light over his hand...there was a small mark from the splinter, but nothing else. Nothing in the wound, nothing that should be causing this much pain.

“Everything okay over there?”

“Yeah, uh,” Sam shook himself and turned back around. “It still stings.”

Dean glanced over at him, face twisted into mock sympathy. “Want me to kiss it better, Sammy?” he teased.

“Shut up.” With effort, Sam focused on an over-stuffed curio cabinet in the back of the room. He tried to ignore the pain in his hand, but as soon as he touched the cabinet door he stumbled back with a gasp, dropping his flashlight to cradle his injured hand to his chest as the pain spread up his arm.

“Sammy?” all joking forgotten, Dean was at his side in an instant.

“H-hurts,” Sam gasped. “God, Dean, it _hurts_.”

“Your hand?”

“It's...up my arm...”

Dean tried to pull his arm away to get a look at it, but even that brief contact had Sam yelping in pain and pulling away from his big brother. “Don't touch it!”

“Okay, okay,” Dean held his hands up. “The couch bit you, right?”

“ _Dean_!”

“Hang on, just gimme a second,” Dean clumsily patted Sam on the shoulder. The pain was spreading up his arm from his hand—it was like he'd stuck his hand into a bucked of used hypodermic needles. Sharp, stabbing pains spread from the tips of his fingers to above his elbow, and were still creeping up his arm toward his shoulder. It was even worse if anything touched him, even his clothing, his skin suddenly hypersensitive to the point that any sensation was painful.

“Found something,” Dean called. He'd pulled a pair of tweezers out of...somewhere...and was holding up a sliver of metal about the size of a sewing needle. “I think there's something written here, but it's too small to read.” His other hand held a little clear evidence bag, ready to hold the metal scrap out of harm's way.

Sam would have made a joke about his brother needing glasses in his old age, but a surge of pain bore through his shoulder into his collarbone and his legs gave out beneath him. Dean was back at his side, hovering, anxious to help but reluctant to cause further pain. “Sammy?”

“It's...god, Dean, it's spreading.”

Dean swore. “Okay, let's get you out of here. Cas can meet us at the bunker and take a look at your hand.”

Sam tried to nod, but the pain was spreading up his neck now. He felt Dean grab his uninjured arm, and even though it seemed the spell hadn't traveled that far yet the pressure of his brother's touch still hurt, like Dean was grinding glass into his skin instead of trying to help him to his feet. He tried to keep silent, but he could tell Dean had heard the little whimper of pain Sam hadn't managed to swallow back.

“Does that hurt?” Dean asked quietly.

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. He didn't want Dean carrying guilt from this—it wasn't Dean's fault some random spell made it too painful to be touched. Dean just grunted in reply and gently maneuvered Sam's hand onto his own shoulder. “If you just lean on me, is that better?”

“A little,” Sam rasped. At least the pain seemed to be focused on his hand then. It took everything within him not to jerk his hand away, as even that small contact brought a fierce, stabbing pain.

Then he took a step and screamed. Pain lanced up his leg as soon as his foot made contact with the floor, like stepping on a nail. His knees buckled and despite Dean's attempts to catch him Sam crashed to the floor again. Sam tried to roll away from the pain, his mind nearly blank with agony, only to be met with more. The fall had sent his muscles spasming, nerves sparking pain up and down his body.

Somewhere overhead Dean was talking, but Sam couldn't understand the words through his agony. He whimpered and twisted and finally stared down his body, surprised that his clothes were still whole and clean. He felt like his flesh was being shredded from his body, down to the bone.

“Hey, hey, come on, stay with me,” Dean was suddenly leaning over him, hands braced on the floor on either side of Sam's head. Not quite touching, but _there_ , the solid weight of Dean's presence anchoring him against the tide of pain. “Cas is on his way, Sammy. We're gonna wait right here, he thinks he can fix this.”

“D-Dean...”

“I know, kiddo, I know. Just hang on, okay? Just need you to hang on for a little while, okay?”

Sam nearly sobbed. He blindly reached up and grabbed at one of Dean's arms, despite the fresh burst of pain it brought. It hurt, like his bones were splintering apart. He needed something, needed his big brother to make this go away, needed some kind of relief. Sam writhed on the floor, every new position more agonizing than the last.

“Come on, man,” Dean's voice broke. “Sammy, just lie still. It's just gonna feel worse if you move around.”

He shook his head. “Dean...”

“I'm right here. Not goin' anywhere.”

“B-boots.”

Dean's eyebrows furrowed together. “Boots?”

Sam twisted, kicking at one foot with the other. As bad as the contact with the floor was, the weight of the boots on his feet was even worse. Dean finally seemed to understand.

“Hang on, I'll get 'em off,” Dean said. He started to pat Sam on the shoulder but froze, his hand a few inches away, then swallowed and turned away to run that hand through his hair instead. “Give me a second, kiddo, okay?”

Sam tried to nod. The instant Dean's hand touched his ankle a surge of pain spiked through his leg and he gave a wordless cry and twisted away to drag himself across the floor. Dean abandoned the boots and crouched at Sam's head again, helpless as his brother writhed in pain.

“Sammy. Sammy, hey, come on.” Dean was kneeling close to him, bent almost in half so they were face to face, careful not to make contact. “Just look at me, man.”

He tried to comply. Sam shuddered, pulling his knees under him to get his stomach away from the stabbing pain only to collapse back down when red-hot spikes of agony drove into legs from the movement. “ _Dean!_ ”

“I know, man,” Dean rested one hand on the ground, close to Sam's. “Focus on me, Sammy. You can do this.”

Sam's breath was panting out in pained whines. He stared at his brother's hand for a few long moments, then slowly inched his own across the floor until his fingers brushed Dean's.

Dean made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Dude, that's just gonna hurt,” he said softly and started to pull his hand away.

“N-no,” Sam stammered, managing to shake his head. “Stay?”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean leaned back down and let his hand relax against the floor. “I'm right here. Not gonna leave you.”

That was how Cas found them. On the floor, Sam still wracked with pain, Dean awkwardly hunched over his knees, their hands barely touching between them. The angel was on his knees at Sam's side in an instant, one hand glowing with warm, bright light as it passed over Sam's body. The younger Winchester shuddered as the pain receded for a second, but curled back into the floor with a moan as it returned as soon as Cas's hand moved away.

“Cas?” Dean leaned away from his brother, face twisting in a wince when his back protested. “What is it?”

“May I see the shard?” Cas asked, holding one hand out to Dean. Dean fumbled in his pocket and found the little clear bag that held the needle-like piece of metal and handed it over to Cas.

The angel held it up to the light, squinting a little as he read the microscopic etching. “This curse is quite powerful, but I believe I can lift it.”

“Great,” Dean rolled himself up to his feet and stretched out a kink in his back. “What do we need?”

“Help me roll him over.”

“That's gonna hurt,” Dean protested as Cas's hands gently picked up Sam under his shoulders. Sam tensed and whimpered, but there was another flare of warm light out of Cas's hands that dulled the pain for a moment as he and Dean settled Sam onto his back. “Now what?”

“I just need a moment,” Cas replied, barely acknowledging Dean now. Still on his knees, he rested his hands on Sam's head, fingers splayed out to encompass as much as he could. Sam cried out and tried to pull away, but the angel held fast.

The pain was leaving him. Sam could have sobbed in relief as a comforting numbness spread through his feet and up his legs. He forced himself to look up, trying to make eye contact with his friend to express his gratitude...only to watch as Cas's face tensed and paled. Then the angel's hands were shaking, his breath heaving in and out in rough pants.

“Cas?” Sam whispered. His arms were free of the spell, and he wrapped one hand around one of the angel's wrists. “What are you...”

With a short cry, Cas released Sam's head and practically flung himself backward. He slammed into the curio cabinet with a grunt, hands clenched in front of him.

“Cas?” Dean had crouched next to Sam to help him up, but he moved toward the angel now. “What happened?”

“Stay back!” Cas threw his head back as his body shook, cracking the glass of the cabinet's door. “The spell needs to be purged.”

“What the hell?” Dean had pulled Sam up enough to lean against him, though it was obvious the spell had sapped the younger Winchester's strength. “Purged? Cas, what did you do?”

Cas didn't reply, his teeth now clenched together tightly enough to shatter, had he been mortal. He gave a strangled cry of pain, then his eyes blazed blue and his skin seemed to take on an ethereal glow. Dean gave a shout and wrapped himself around his brother, closing his own eyes as a rush of heavenly power exploded out of Cas.

The room shook, pictures rattled on the walls, and a hundred tacky knick-knacks cracked into pieces.

“It's done,” Cas intoned gravely. “The spell is broken.”

Dean released Sam and was on his feet in a moment, whirling to face Cas. “What did you do?”

Nonplussed, Cas had risen as well and was casually brushing dust off his coat. “I could not purge the spell within Sam, so I took it into my own body.”

“You took...Cas, man, what the hell!”

Cas met Dean's eyes blandly. “The power needed to destroy such a spell would have turned your brother to dust. My vessel was the only one strong enough to withstand it.”

“Your vessel...Cas, you said you could break the spell.”

“I did,” Cas squinted and tilted his head, unsure of the source of his friend's anger. “I took the spell into my vessel and broke it apart.”

Dean threw his hands in the air and turned back to Sam, gesturing at Cas. “Oh, that's all he did.”

“Dean...” Sam shook his head. He could understand why his brother was upset, but honestly, the mere _absence_ of pain was enough for him. “Just...let's just leave it for now, okay?”

Dean whirled back to face Cas, clearly about to argue again, when the sound of a key turning in a lock caught them all by surprise. “What was that?” Dean asked.

“Most likely the witch whose house you've broken into,” Cas replied. He was staring around the room in fascination. “Though I now see why it has taken you so long to find a simple cursed necklace.”

“Son of a _bitch_!” Dean yanked the gun out of the back of his waistband, ejected the clip, double-checked the rounds he'd loaded, and slammed the clip back into place. “This day just won't _end_!”


	2. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel agrees to help one of the refugees from Apocalypse World, only to be drawn into a trap. 
> 
> TW: buried alive (not all the way, but read with caution if that's something that upsets you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you knew it was coming. The first obligatory Cas Whump chapter. 
> 
> And yes, I know this kind of plot has been done over and over, but this is my own version!
> 
> This is specifically set at the end of season thirteen, when all the Apocalypse World people had just arrived, before Lucifer came back.
> 
> (Please excuse the mistakes, my neighbors were doing construction all day. And while that is completely their right and they were working within reasonable hours, it still gave me a migraine.)

“Hey, um, you're Castiel, right?”

Castiel had taken over one of the long tables in the archive for the monumental task of correcting the Men of Letters' angelic lore. He'd left strict instructions with the Winchesters that he was not to be disturbed unless another apocalypse loomed...but apparently the refugees from the apocalypse world had no such scruples.

“I am,” Castiel straightened up as he spoke. The amount of mistaken lore was truly astounding—angels did not have “tail feathers” in their physical form, and if they had there was no such thing as “devil's salt” one could sprinkle on them to render an angel flightless.

The man addressing him looked to be a few years older than Dean, and possibly as tall as Sam (though with a broader frame). He had sandy-colored hair and dark eyes, and had a few papers rolled up between his hands that he was fidgeting with in a worried fashion. “I'm sorry—my name is Tony?”

Castiel tried to keep his irritation hidden. Most of the other refugees were going through basic weapons evaluations with Dean, or some sort of cultural awareness class with Sam. Some were helping Mary or Jack air out rooms and acquire supplies. “The archive is off-limits at the moment,” he finally said before turning back to the volume in front of him. Volume seven of thirty-eight. _On Lesser Angels and the Luciferian Schism_.

It was more like one of those low-budget movies Dean was always making him watch than an actual account of the chaos in heaven after Lucifer's fall.

“It's just...Sam said you might help me?”

Castiel looked up at Tony, fighting back a resigned sigh. “What is it you need?” If Sam had sent this man, it was probably something important. He had gotten used to the refugees ignoring him—if not outright insulting him—until it was easier to stay out of the way in the archives to work on other projects.

“I was hoping you could teach me about Enochian,” Tony said. He entered the room unbidden and pushed _On Lesser Angels and the Luciferian Schism_ aside to unroll the papers he'd been clutching. “Sam said you were the best one to ask about binding sigils?”

He tried to peer over the man's shoulder at the papers, and with a hint of annoyance gently shouldered him out of the way to study the papers. They were covered with angel traps, no doubt copied from the texts in the top-floor library, with messily-scrawled notes about spell words and ingredients on the edges of the pages. “What were you looking for?”

“Well, you're an angel, right?”

Castiel didn't dignify that question with an answer. He walked away from the papers Tony had spread out on the table to rescue his copy of _Lesser Angels and the Luciferian Schism_. Perhaps his room, or even the firing range where Dean was putting some of the refugees through their paces would be more suited to his work.

“I'm sorry, please, don't go,” Tony grabbed him by the wrist. “Look, I get it, you think we don't trust you. But come on, not all humans in my world are good...so why would all angels in this one be bad?”

Resigned, Castiel lowered the heavy volume back to the table. “What did you need?”

Tony leaned in closer. “I know the sigils don't work the same in my world, but I was hoping if you could explain why they worked we could figure out a way to modify them. What if there are good angels back home, or at least angels willing to negotiate?”

Castiel was staring pointedly at where Tony's hand was still nearly encircling his wrist. The man finally seemed to realize what was wrong and released his hold, though he didn't step back. Castiel let out a sigh. “Show me what you found.”

Tony fairly bounded the few steps back to his papers. “I was looking at these, the ones that just keep an angel from flying away? Sam said they were useless now because you don't have wings anymore, but they could be useful in my world?”

He barely managed to hide his flinch at the human's casual explanation. Castiel hadn't thought Sam would be so free with such information, though he supposed it was not as personal to a human as it was to an angel. “An angel trap must also compensate for the level of the angel you wish to trap,” Castiel explained reluctantly. He sorted the papers until he could lay two traps out side-by-side. “This trap, on the left, would be sufficient to trap a Malakim, but to trap a Seraphim you would need the trap on the right.”

“So, like, different species?”

“Different manifestations of power,” Castiel shuffled the papers back together. “These are obsolete. Traps are rarely effective and easy to disrupt for even the weakest angel. You would be better off securing a supply of holy oil.”

“Holy oil?”

The way Tony spoke, raising the end of almost every sentence so that it sounded like a question, was starting to irritate Castiel. “You should ask Sam about that.” He probably wasn't being fair, and he would probably face a lecture from his human friends on cooperating with and assisting the refugees, but he did not like the thought of handing over one of the few items that could incapacitate him to someone who had been raised to fear angels.

“Sorry, I'm bothering you,” Tony said. He sounded sincere, but despite his words he leaned one hip against the table as though settling in for a long conversation. “What about these?”

Castiel fought the instinct to flinch back. Dangling from one of Tony's hands was a set of manacles from the dungeon, from the small selection of anti-angel restraints. They were thick and heavy, made of thunderbolt iron and inscribed with seven sigils of varying intensity. It was one of the oldest and most powerful artifacts in the bunker and should have been locked away where the refugees wouldn't find it. Like the angel blades.

“Those are anti-angel manacles,” Castiel explained brusquely. “Excuse me.”

He tried to push past Tony, but the human had turned back to shuffle to the papers. “There was one other thing,” he called.

Castiel felt his lips press into a thin line. Annoyance mingled with irritation as he turned back around to face the other man.

The holy oil struck him in the face.

He stumbled back, wiping at his eyes, nearly choking on the thick, cloying liquid. “What are you doing?"

Castiel's heart sank at the familiar click of a lighter. He blinked away enough oil to see Tony standing far too close, the flames dancing in his dark eyes.

“There is no such thing as a good angel,” Tony said.

Frighteningly aware of how vulnerable he was, with holy oil dripping off his chin and soaking through most of his clothing, Castiel forced himself to stand his ground and meet his opponent's gaze. “What now?” he asked.

Tony threw the manacles at his chest. “Put 'em on.” His voice was stronger, more decisive. “I think killing you might put me on their bad side, but I can put you out of the way somewhere. Until we have time to remind them that your kind is not to be trusted.”

Castiel fastened the manacles around each wrist and instantly felt his true form weaken under the magic engraved into the thunderbolt iron. He held his chin up defiantly, staring coldly into Tony's eyes. If this man thought binding his true form would cow him, Castiel would prove him wrong.

The man gave a feral grin, then grabbed the chain that bound the manacles together and uttered an incantation. Castiel gave a cry and stumbled forward, fighting to remain on his feet as his knees tried to buckle beneath him. There were sigils on the inside of the manacles, and activating them had driven iron spikes into his wrists. His hands went numb as the spell dove even deeper into his true form, and he could see blood welling up at the edges of the cuffs.

“Walk,” Tony hissed, jerking him around to push him forward. He had closed the lighter so that the dangerous flame was extinguished, no doubt deciding that its mere presence would be a deterrent enough to his captive.

Castiel stumbled against the table. His numb hands closed around the heavy volume of _On Lesser Angels and the Luciferian Schism_ , and with the tiniest regret for losing a valuable resource he swung the book around to collide with Tony's head. The man fell back with a shout and, most importantly, dropped the lighter.

He bolted for the door. Numb hands hanging in front of him, his vessel weighed down by his paralyzed true form, he ran. If he could beat Tony to the corridor he could summon help, perhaps even one of the Winchesters.

Something large and heavy slammed into Castiel's back, catching him off-guard and knocking him to the floor. Tony had regained his feet far too quickly. Castiel struggled, but Tony had found a set of Enochian brass knuckles and, weakened as he was, the new blows to his true form had him reeling.

“Little bastard,” Tony snarled. He twisted one hand in the manacles' chain and yanked Castiel around onto his back, the cuffs biting into his flesh to send more warm blood trickling into his cuffs. “I wasn't trying to hurt you.”

Castiel glowered up at him. His hands had gone numb, his wrists were torn from the heavy manacles, and he could feel the dark bruises forming on his back and side. “I doubt that,” he managed to growl out.

Tony's face darkened. He grabbed Castiel's hair with his free hand and slammed the angel's head into the floor.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The world went dark.

* * *

When Castiel awoke, it was to darkness and the rumble of an unfamiliar engine. He had been folded into a small, enclosed space—the smell of exhaust and oil suggested it was the trunk of a car, though the car itself did not seem to be moving. His head was pounding, and the weight of the enchanted manacles was still heavy around his wrists.

He shifted a little, trying to bring his wrists closer to his face. His true form had been bound and beaten, but he could still see a little in the darkness of the trunk. The manacles were sealed. It would take a specific spell to open them—but even if he could have pried the iron apart the spikes in his flesh would tear his hands to ribbons.

Then, above the throbbing engine, he could hear footsteps crunching through dirt and gravel toward the back of the car. The lid of the trunk was thrust back, the warm light of sunset streaming in to illuminate his captor.

“You're awake,” Tony commented.

Castiel tried to reply, but was dismayed to discover the man had belted a muzzle onto him while he was asleep. It was a simple device of iron and leather, made to strap over the mouth and chin of an angel or demon to keep the being within from abandoning its vessel.

Tony leaned in and grabbed the manacle chain to haul Castiel out, ignoring the way the metal cut and tore into the angel's flesh to leave his hands and arms bloody. Castiel stumbled after him, coming to a halt at the edge of an empty grave.

The man held up the lighter, flicking it open. “I've got more oil.”

Castiel stared at the flame, then down into the yawning pit in the earth. Before he could truly wrap his mind around what the man was asking his legs were knocked out from under him and he was falling into the grave. He landed on his side, the pain jarring through his shoulder and pulling at the bonds of his hands.

The grave was small, just enough room for him to lie down. If he stood up he could have climbed out, but with Tony still looming over the open edge Castiel had to bide his time. He stared up at the man, though Tony seemed content to just watch him for a few moments.

There was nothing else for it. Much as he wanted his son nowhere near this madman, Castiel closed his eyes and turned away from his captor's face to send his thoughts out to Jack. He wasn't even sure what could get out past the anti-angel sigils binding him, but it was his only choice at the moment.

He thought he felt Jack answer, but the sudden _whoosh_ of flames had him jerking back around in panic. The grave was lit with firelight, and for a sickening moment he thought Tony had tossed the lighter in with him...but the fire was around the top.

“You can't pass the flames,” Tony called down. “I'd stay very still, if I were you.”

Castiel grit his teeth in frustration. He couldn't call out to Jack now, though whether that was from the presence of the flames or simply the disruption in his concentration he didn't know. He was forced to lie still in the bottom of the grave, as the oil still drying in his hair and clothes could ignite if he got too close to the flames.

He could hear Tony walking around above him, then the engine that had been rumbling in the background began to grow louder. Castiel stared up in concern, then horror as the end of some kind of metal trough slid over the edge of the grave.

A thick, heavy liquid began to pour over the lip of the trough and onto Castiel's legs.

“I don't know if the concrete'll kill you,” Tony commented, coming back around to stand near Castiel's head. “But like I said...we really just need you out of the way.”

Castiel tried to pull away from the spreading liquid cement, but the sound of Tony flicking the lighter above him caught his attention. He stared up, past the flaming oil around the mouth of the grave, into the pitiless gaze of the man holding him prisoner.

Tony held the lighter between them, the firelight reflecting red in his dark eyes. “Which do you think is worse?” he asked, almost casually. “Burned alive or buried alive?”

The angel pulled on the manacles furiously, ignoring how badly the thunderbolt iron was tearing into the skin of his wrists and hands. Cement was seeping into his clothing, his hair. He could feel the weight on his legs, but even as he tried to pull away from it Tony held the lighter out over the open grave.

Tony's head suddenly whipped around, and above the churning of the cement machine Castiel heard the welcome roar of the Impala's engine. Tony glared down into the grave for one moment, then straightened up with the lighter still held over the opening. “Stay back or I drop it!”

“Put the lighter down!” Sam's voice was loud and strong, and Castiel twisted, trying to get some sound past the angel-proof muzzle.

“That thing is dangerous!” Tony raved. “I don't know how he convinced you he was on your side, but you can't trust him!”

“He ain't the one kidnapping people and burying 'em alive.” Dean's voice had that special edge of fury, the one Castiel usually heard when someone was threatening Sam. “Back away!”

“You shoot me, I drop it,” Tony warned. He cast a mad, frantic look down into the grave. They had to stall him, Castiel realized. If they could stall Tony long enough for the cement to cover Castiel, there would be no holy oil to burn. It would be uncomfortable and dangerous, but it was the only way.

“No, I don't think so.” Jack was here, too. The young nephilim sounded so calm and confident, despite the flickering fire and the madman holding his father's life in his hands. “I think you're going to put that down and step away from the fire.”

Tony laughed. “You want me to drop it?”

Time seemed to slow. Tony opened his hand, the lighter spinning a little in the trembling light of evening. Then Castiel realized it wasn't _time_ that had stopped, it was _Tony._

Tony's entire being had been swallowed by golden waves of concussive force, enough to hold both the man and the lighter still. In the faint light above him Castiel saw Sam kicking dirt over the fire just enough to snatch the lighter out of thin air, then Dean was over the side and into the grave, pulling Castiel up out of the cement.

“Dammit, Cas, you okay?” Dean asked. He tucked the angel against his shoulder to yank at the straps of the muzzle, then with a muttered curse pulled a knife free and simply cut through them.

Castiel took in a shaky breath, coughing back out the stink of holy fire and mud and fresh cement. “I'll be fine,” he managed to grunt.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean didn't sound convinced, though the hunter did struggle to his feet and haul Castiel up with him, passing him up to Sam as soon as they were standing.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam's forehead was still creased with worry, even as he helped Dean pull the angel free of the grave. “What happened?”

“That's what I wanna know,” Dean retorted. He had climbed out of the grave and stalked toward Tony, who had been released from Jack's powers. “You wanna give me one good reason not to gank you right now?”

Castiel shuddered, grateful for Sam's support as the younger hunter began scraping the wet cement off of his clothes. “I'm all right, Sam.”

Sam shot him a quick smile. “Just checking, Cas. What's with the cuffs?”

The thunderbolt iron, of course, was still secure around his wrists, the spikes embedded deep in his torn flesh. “They'll need a spell to open them.”

“I can do it,” Jack offered. He had knelt on Castiel's other side, though his efforts to towel the cement out of his surrogate father's hair had been a bit less successful that Sam's. The young nephilim rested his hands on the dark metal of the cuffs, and Castiel felt the spells shatter as the manacles cracked under the pressure of Jack's power. Jack gasped and Sam made a concerned sound when they saw the torn and bloody skin beneath the manacles, and the deep punctures left by the punishing spikes.

“It's all right,” Castiel repeated. He wasn't sure who he was trying to comfort more—the boy who was still far too young to see such things, the friend who was far too young to have seen so many, or himself for having lived through it. His grace was already returning, already knitting back together the mangled bone and sinew of his wrists.

“What do we do with asshat here?” Dean asked. Castiel craned around Sam to see that Tony had been rolled onto his stomach, his hands bound behind him, though from the lack of muttering and cursing it was likely that he was unconscious.

“We'll let the other refugees decide,” Sam replied. “We can't just kill him here. We let them know what he tried, and what we do to people who hurt out family. They can figure out where they stand after that.”

Dean didn't seem convinced. “Cas?”

Castiel was surprised to realize he was tired. His clothes stank of holy oil and cement, and his hands and wrists were still a bloody mess. He wanted his nice, quiet room, with a long, restful night correcting the factual inaccuracies of _On Lesser Angels and the Luciferian Schism_. “Let's go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there! In this big, wide, world you're one-of-a-kind and completely irreplaceable, and I'm so glad you're here!


	3. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had never really needed sleep before. Why was it now, when he was practically craving it, so hard to grasp?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet!
> 
> Set in the beginning of season 14, definitely spoilers for that.

The sounds of the bunker late at night used to be comforting to Jack. He had spent many long nights, before he lost his powers, reading or studying the internet while the fans cycled on and off or the long banks of computers whirred through complicated calculations. But now...now the hours just stretched out before him, bleak and empty, and the sounds that used to bring him comfort only seemed to mark how slowly the night was passing.

He had never really needed sleep before. Why was it now, when he was practically craving it, so hard to grasp?

Jack threw black the blankets and twisted to rest his feet on the floor while he sat up in bed. He scrubbed one hand through his hair and reached out for his phone with the other, frowning and dropping the phone back on the nightstand when he saw the time.

Why did they even _have_ a three a. m.?

He shuffled his feet into a pair of slippers and slowly made his way out of his room and down the hall to the map room. There was always something to work on there, with information coming in from so many hunters.

To his surprise Sam was at the big table, paperwork spread out around him like a slow-moving avalanche. Jack tried to slip back out of the room, unwilling to disturb the hunter, but years of hard-won instincts had Sam's head snapping up at the slightest hint of movement.

“Jack?” Sam squinted at the younger man. “Is everything all right? It's...wow, it's three in the morning?” he added, checking his watch. “Huh. Time flies.”

“Couldn't sleep,” Jack said with a shrug. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled a chair out at the big table and sat down. “I seem to be having trouble with that lately.”

“Yeah,” Sam tried to smile, but his face was pinched with exhaustion and worry. It was always like that these days, it seemed. “Yeah, that seems to be going around.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just some reports,” Sam explained. He rolled his shoulders, winced, then twisted his neck until it cracked. Dean always complained about...

Dean.

“Any word on Michael?” Jack asked. He hated being stuck here, powerless, while an archangel was possessing one of the men he considered his father. If he'd had his powers Dean would never have said yes to Michael, and their little family wouldn't be missing someone so important to them.

“Cas is following a lead in Seattle, and Mom is up in Maine with some of the guys checking on some werewolf sightings, but not much,” Sam shook his head. “We'll find him, Jack.”

Jack nodded, but Sam's focus was already back on his papers. He traced his finger along the surface of the table, counting the little bumps and scratches in the finish. “I miss him.”

He heard Sam give a sigh. When he looked up the older man was staring down at the papers in front of him, but not really reading. Jack knew his short time with the Winchesters couldn't possibly compare to the lifetime Sam and Dean had had with each other, but even then the hole left by Dean's absence seemed big enough to swallow everything else. If this was how bad it was after a couple of years he couldn't imagine how it felt after ten, or thirty.

“All right,” Sam shuffled his papers together and cleared his throat. He tried to smile at Jack, but his eyes were suspiciously wet. “This can wait for a little bit. Come on, I'm gonna make us some tea.”

“Tea?” Jack found himself starting at Sam's retreating back as the hunter made his way toward the kitchen. Jack followed, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the late-night chill. “How is tea going to help?”

“Don't let Rowena hear you say that,” Sam called over his shoulder. “Trust me, Jack. It's an old family recipe.”

“Is it really whiskey?” Jack asked. He trailed after Sam into the kitchen and settled on one of the stools at the center island. “Because when Dean made his secret recipe coffee I'm pretty sure that was mostly whiskey.”

“What? No!” Sam stared at him. It was almost comical—he had been reaching into one of the cabinets above the fridge, which Sam was just about the only person tall enough to reach, and his shirt had ridden up just enough to show a thin strip of skin above his belt. He was frozen in place, staring at Jack in disbelief, one hand on an ornate tin Jack had never seen before. “Dean gave you Irish coffee?”

“I don't know what made it Irish,” Jack shrugged. “It was kind of bitter. It made me cough, and he laughed and said I'd grow into it.”

“Sounds like Dean,” Sam muttered. He set the tin on the kitchen island and put a kettle on the stove. “No, this is just an herbal tea. It's good to help you relax.”

When Sam opened the tin, Jack leaned forward to investigate. It smelled good, kind of minty and soothing with a little bit of smoky spice to it. The tea was packed into little bags, like regular tea bags, but these looked like they'd been made by hand and tied with a little bit of string “So did Mary teach you to make this?”

“Hmm?” Sam had gotten out two mugs and put a tea bag in each, followed by a generous portion of honey. “Oh, no, not Mom.”

“So Dean, then?”

“No. Well, eventually. No, we...we learned this from Bobby. Our Bobby.”

Jack propped his chin in one hand to watch Sam arrange the mugs side-by-side. He wished he could have met the other Bobby. Sam and Dean told more stories about him than they did about their own father, and even though he loved the Bobby he'd met (in a way), there was something about Sam and Dean's Bobby that just felt like family.

“Our dad...he used to leave us with Bobby a lot, usually if he was going on a dangerous hunt and we were too young. One time I was really sick, I think it was chicken pox, and it just seemed like nothing they did could calm me down.”

The kettle whistled and Sam pulled it off, pouring steaming water into the mugs. Jack waited, hoping for more of the story. He could smell the tea now, as it steeped in the water. Just the scent of it made something in his shoulders relax.

“Bobby had gotten this recipe from a friend who was an herbalist,” Sam continued. He'd put the kettle aside and was now leaning against the counter, staring down into the mugs as the water slowly darkened. “It's mostly a blend of different kinds of mint, plus some chamomile and Asian herbs. Bobby said it was the only thing that calmed me down. He made it for me while we were there, then he taught Dean how to make it when Dad came back.”

Sam pulled the teabags out and dropped them into the trashcan, then stirred a little bit of milk in. “Here we go. Try it, see if you like it.”

Jack picked up the mug. He closed his eyes and just smelled it for a moment, enjoying the rich, comforting scent. It seemed like it was even better because of the story Sam had told, like some tiny piece of a long family history that started back before he was born had made its way into the mug.

He took a slow sip. It was sweet and soothing, and settled in his chest like a warm hug. Jack opened his eyes to see Sam smiling at him over his own mug, the worried lines in the older hunter's face relaxing just a bit. “It's really good,” Jack said.

Sam's eyes crinkled as his smile broadened. “Glad you like it. Want me to teach you to make it?”

Jack took another sip and nodded. “I think I'd like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, the tea is based off of "Tension Tamer" by Celestial Seasonings. It's been one of my favorite tea blends for years.
> 
> Stay safe out there! Trust me, I know when you're tired or scared or hurting it's easy to feel like everything has gone wrong, but that's when we have to be there for each other!
> 
> PS: Does anyone watch Funhaus on YouTube? One of the videos they posted today had a joke about FBI agents recruiting someone, and one of the "agents" was Dean Winchester! Makes me wonder if they're the ones who show up as FBI stock images now!


	4. "No, Stop!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late-night call has Sam rushing away from Stanford to save his brother from the grasp of an evil he hadn't seen coming: John Winchester (AU, pre-series, content warning for physical and verbal abuse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious content warnings for physical and verbal abuse. If that's going to upset you, please skip this chapter. 
> 
> This is an AU set before season one.
> 
> This is not my official stance on John Winchester, just an idea from the Whumptober prompt.
> 
> I'm pretty sure this is the roughest chapter. The rest are kind of fluffy bunnies compared to this (well...as far as whump goes)

Sam jerked himself awake out of dreams of turning in his ethics paper, only to realize he'd brought his kindergarten drawings with him instead, when his phone on his desk in his dorm room began buzzing. He blinked at it in confusion for a moment, taking a few seconds to realize he'd fallen asleep as his desk, again, during another late-night study session.

He grabbed the phone and squinted at the unfamiliar number, then hit the call button and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?” His voice was raspy with sleep, and a little annoyed at being woken up.

“ _S-Sammy?_ ”

Sam had fully expected it to be a wrong number, but the sound of his brother's voice had him sitting straight up in his seat. “Dean?”

There was a shaky laugh on the other end of the line. “ _Wasn't sure you were gonna answer._ ”

He pulled the phone away to check the signal. Dean's voice sounded faint and scratchy, like one of them had a bad connection. “It's after midnight, man. Why are you calling me?” Not that he wasn't happy to hear from his brother. It was just...complicated.

“ _Sammy...man..._ ”

“It's Sam,” Sam interrupted. The least his family could do was acknowledge he was an adult who could make his own decisions.

“ _Right, of course,”_ Dean broke away with a cough. “ _Sam. I've never asked you for anything._ ”

Sam frowned. Dean sounded drunk, or maybe concussed. “What's wrong, Dean?”

“ _I need you to come back._ ”

Not this. “Look, I told you and Dad I was done. You can't make me come back, I already-”

“ _I can't do it anymore,_ ” Dean interrupted. The older Winchester coughed again, his voice breaking as he spoke. “ _I thought I could just ride it out...that he would...but it's just not...I need your help, Sammy._ ”

Sam didn't correct him on the nickname this time. He was frozen in place at his brother's desperate words, mind reeling at the implications. “Dean. Did something happen to Dad?”

“ _Shit!_ ”

Dean hissed the word out in panic, then the line exploded into white noise. Sam jerked the phone away to check the call connection. The call was still active, so he pressed the phone back to his ear. “Dean?”

“...- _old you to be packed up by now, boy!_ ” Sam froze, a chill running through his gut. He'd know that voice anywhere, but the words were so twisted by rage they were nearly unrecognizable. He pressed the phone closer, his eyes squeezed shut as though that would make the signal clearer. There were some muted sounds—Dean's voice, maybe—then the unmistakable _crack_ of a fist striking flesh.

“ _I'll be back in twenty minutes. Anything that isn't packed up is comin' out of your hide._ ”

There were some more sounds. Fabric rustling, a door slamming. Sam waited, phone pressed so hard to his face he wouldn't be surprised if it left key prints. “Dean?”

His own voice had come out in a whisper, almost unrecognizable to his own ears. He was shaking, he realized. He'd seen his father angry, of course. They'd butted heads over and over because of the stupidest crap, but John Winchester had never raised his voice like _that_.

There was more rustling on the other end, but before Sam could say another word the call ended. He hastily redialed the number, but it cut off after only one ring. He called again, but it went right to voicemail.

It was clear enough what he had to do.

* * *

It had been easy enough to get out of Stanford. Ask the dorm to notify his professors that he had a family emergency, “borrow” a car from one of the shadier motels in the area, and head east. There would be questions, and emails and texts from his friends when they realized he was gone, but Sam couldn't worry about that now.

He had to find Dean, and he knew just where to start.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Sam smiled in spite of himself at the familiar voice. “Hey, Bobby. It's Sam.”

“ _Sam? I'll be...it's good to hear from you, son._ ”

“Yeah, you too. Hey, I got a call from Dean, I think he's in trouble. Any idea where I can find him?”

Bobby was silent for a few moments. Sam shifted the phone to his other hand so he could change the gears on the little Toyota he'd hotwired (he was never teasing Dean about driving an automatic ever again). “Bobby?”

“ _I'm here. Look, Sam, maybe it ain't my place to say. Dean's..._ ”

“I know something's wrong,” Sam replied shortly. “He called me a few hours ago. Bobby, is...” Sam swallowed, his mouth drying out at even the thought. “Is my dad hurting Dean?”

The older hunter sighed over the phone. “ _Look, son, what goes on between Dean and your daddy-_ ”

“Dammit, Bobby, just tell me!”

“ _Where are you, son?_ ” Bobby's voice was softer now, almost gentle. It was all the answer Sam needed.

He swallowed back the tears that suddenly welled up. “About an hour out of Stanford.”

“ _All right. Last I heard they were headed to southern Idaho, little place called Riddle. I'll see if I can narrow it down further and let you know, try to meet you there, okay? Don't do anything stupid until I get there._ ”

Sam scrubbed one hand across his face, smearing tears into his sideburns. “Okay.”

“ _I mean it. You park your ass there and you wait for me. I don't want you facing your daddy alone, you hear me?_ ”

“I hear you. Thanks, Bobby.” Sam closed out the call and tossed the phone in the passenger's seat. He could look up the town once he'd cross the state line and plot a closer course, but for now he just let himself settle into the rhythm of the road as his thoughts wandered.

_Abuse_. He'd thrown that word at their father so often. Every missed event, or week without money, or time they got pulled out of school just as Sam was settling in. As soon as he was tall enough to get in his father's face they'd been screaming at each other, with Dean on the side always telling Sam to calm down, always saying Dad had no choice.

God. If he'd missed the signs all this time....

The road stretched out in front of him, flat and empty. Sam floored the accelerator.

He could make southern Idaho by noon.

* * *

There was almost nothing to Riddle as far as Sam could tell. It looked like it had hit its heyday back in the mining boom and just gone downhill ever since. There was a gas station with an old-fashioned country store attached that looked like it served as the local dive bar, but not much more.

If his dad and Dean were hunting something here, they'd have to set up somewhere. Sam settled down with his laptop and easily cracked the WiFi password for the county store to start checking the usual sources. It was a little depressing, truth be told, how quickly it all came back after so many months away.

There were some suspicious deaths, tourists mostly, connected to one of the depleted gold mines. The official cause of death was a bear attack, but the attacks were too regular to be from a normal animal. Sam double-checked a lunar calendar and nodded to himself—every month three days after the new moon, that stank of something supernatural.

But he wasn't here for that kind of monster.

He was just considering heading into the store to discreetly ask about his father and brother when the purr of a familiar engine had his heart surging into his throat. Sam shut the laptop and tried to hunch down into the seat as an all-too-familiar black Impala pulled into a parking space outside of the store.

John got out of the driver's seat to walk into the store. Sam stared after him, his gut twisting even further. He had hoped there would be something...something in the walk, or the movement of the head...anything to convince him that this was something possessing or imitating his father. But it was all there...one hand in his right pocket, a casual glance over either shoulder as though stretching, a critical look over the cars to memorize make, model, and color...and he was inside.

Sam started his car up and slowly pulled away from the store. He knew John's patterns better than anyone, if there wasn't some skeezy hotel there would be an abandoned house nearby to serve as their base of operations.

“Sorry, Bobby,” Sam whispered, “but this is my brother.”

* * *

It took over an hour. Every second stretched out, and Sam found himself checking the rear-view mirror almost as much as he checked the roadside, half expecting his father to come roaring up behind him at any moment.

But he finally spotted it. Tucked away beneath the trees, half the roof fallen in, the fields and lawn around it gone wild. It used to be a single-wide trailer, but now it was the sort of decrepit ruin that could only be described as a five-star Winchester resort.

Sam drove a few more yards down the road until he found somewhere to hide the car. He texted Bobby the address of the abandoned trailer and left his phone on the front seat as he picked his way through the overgrowth to the ruined house.

He could see a single light in one of the windows, like an old camping lantern. To his surprise, his hands were shaking as he approached the door but Sam forced himself to be calm. Dean had practically raised him, had given up everything for him. He had to face what was behind the door.

Inside the trailer smelled of mold and rot and cheap beer. There were a couple of sleeping bags, still rolled up, against one wall and three duffel bags on an old, moth-eaten sofa.

And Dean. His brother was sitting against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chest, head resting against the wall.

Sam took a step toward Dean. The floor creaked under his foot and Dean's head snapped up, eyes wide and aware, panicked gaze darting around the room before landing on Sam's face.

“Dean?” Sam walked closer, wincing at the way his brother flinched back. “It's okay, man. I'm here.”

“S-Sammy?”

There were shadows under Dean's eyes, bruises on his face, and he didn't quite seem to believe Sam was there. Sam crouched down in front of him, careful to keep his hands visible. “I'm right here, Dean. You called me for help, remember?”

Dean blinked harshly, and some of the fogginess in his eyes cleared. “Sam?”

“Right here, dude.” Hesitantly, Sam spread his arms open. Dean launched himself into his brother's arms with a cry, clinging to Sam's jacket with surprising strength. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's back, dismayed at how thin his brother had gotten. “I'm here, Dean. I'm right here.”

Dean was shaking, though Sam didn't think he was crying. Not really. Not the big, wet tears that Dean had always said were girl tears but never _really_ teased him for. Sam gently ran his fingers through his brother's hair, flinching along with Dean when he found a raised bump on the back of his head. “I'm gonna get you out of here,” he promised. “We'll figure something out, but we've gotta get away from Dad first.”

“What? No!” Dean pushed away, eyes wide with panic. “No, Sammy, we just need you back with us. It's because...he said...I'll do better, Sammy, I swear, but you have to stay.”

“Dean,” Sam gently took his brothers hands and squeezed them to get his attention. “You can't stay with him.”

“But...Sammy...” there were real tears in Dean's eyes now, streaming down his beaten face. “He's...he's Dad.”

“No, man,” Sam pulled his brother close again, letting Dean bury his face in the collar of his jacket. “Not anymore. Not after this. He lost that right the second he raised his hand to you.”

There were other men in their lives more worthy of that name. Sam thought of Bobby teaching them to play catch instead of target practice. Caleb sneaking comic books into their bags when Dad stopped by to restock. Pastor Jim coaching them on Latin pronunciations and giving them pocket money for wiping down the pews in the church.

“We'll go to Bobby's,” he said after a long few minutes. “You know Dad. He probably just needs a few days on his own to get it out of his system. It'll all get better, you'll see.” He hated lying to his brother, but whatever it took to get Dean out of that door and away from their father.

Sam clumsily climbed to his feet, pulling Dean with him. “I'm gonna take care of you, okay? I'm not leaving you Dean, I swear it.”

“Good to hear, Sammy.”

He froze. His gut turned to ice, his mind roared with panic. Somehow Sam turned around and kept Dean behind him, finding himself face-to-face with his father.

“Glad you could join us,” John sneered. He stalked over to the moth-eaten couch to drop a handful of grocery bags. “Dean-o there was starting to miss you.”

Sam felt, more than heard, the hitch in Dean's breath when their father said his name. With that, a hot rush of anger replaced the fear and he found himself wishing he'd been able to get to one of the guns. This wasn't their father anymore; this was a monster.

“Aren't you gonna say something, boy?” John barked. He stormed right into Sam's face, glaring up at him, eyes dark with fury.

“We're leaving. And you're not following us. You're not coming anywhere near us again.”

John's face split into a sinister smile. “Wrong answer.”

“No, stop!” Dean was under Sam's arm and somehow in between them in a moment. He placed both hands on his father's chest and tried to push him back. “Not Sammy. Please, Dad...please, not Sammy.”

John sneered and backhanded Dean, the older brother crumpling to the ground at the force of the blow. “Always with Sammy,” he snarled, slamming his boot into Dean's unprotected stomach. “Even when he abandoned us...when _you_ drove him away, it was all about _Sammy_.”

Sam grabbed the nearest thing—a ladder-back chair that had more termites than wood—and swung it a his father as his father laid into Dean. The wood splintered on impact and John staggered a step back, enough for Sam to get under his guard and lay him out with a single punch.

But John didn't fall. He staggered back a step and rubbed his chin, chuckling darkly at Sam's confusion. “Quite a punch there, kiddo.”

Then John's eyes flicked from brown to yellow, and the world dropped out from under Sam's feet.

* * *

He couldn't have been out for more than a few seconds, but when he came to he was pinned to one of the crumbling walls of the little trailer while the demon possessing John Winchester paced around Dean's helpless form.

“Your daddy never told you what happened to mommy dearest,” the demon began as soon as it saw Sam was awake. “Well...I guess you know _I_ happened to her.”

“You son of a bitch,” Sam rasped. Dean was curled up, unconscious, still such a vulnerable target for the demon's wrath. “How long have you been possessing him?”

“Oh, a few weeks,” the yellow-eyed demon preened a little, holding one hand out as if to admire the nails. “It was all so easy, you see. Daddy here was just so angry after you left, why, he might as well have turned down the sheets and lit up the vacancy sign. Nothing at all for someone like me to just wander in and have the run of the place.”

“And Dean?”

“What, him?” the demon kicked Dean, who groaned and curled up tighter. “I had to have something to amuse myself. And your daddy had already done such a good job, why, all I had to do was tighten a few screws here and there.” It knelt down and rested one hand on Dean's head. “Poor little Dean-o, always so ready to throw himself on the wire for family. Do you know he actually thought he was helping? Like if Daddy got enough of the bad emotions out they could be a happy little family again?”

Sam glared, but the demon had him pinned to the wall so completely he could barely do more than shake his head. “I'm gonna kill you if it's the last thing I do,” he snarled.

The demon chuckled at this, abandoning Dean's side to walk up to Sam. “Will you, sport? Because I've got a little proposition of my own. Come with me. Be my...protege, I guess you could say. Join me, Sammy, and Dean-o there can limp off into the sunset. Free from you, free from me, free from everyone hurting him oh so badly.”

He flinched away as the demon's tone became sugary, coaxing. “No one would wonder about it,” it continued, leaning in close enough that John's lips nearly brushed Sam's ear. “Everyone already knows you're the favorite,” it whispered. “That Dean over there was just a nuisance. A punching bag at best and a ball and chain at worst. Daddy only kept him around to look after you.”

“I don't believe you,” Sam growled.

“No?” the demon leaned back. It grinned and stalked back over to Dean, hauling him up to yank the back of his shirt up. “Look what happened the second you were out of the picture.”

Sam felt sick. Dean's back was crisscrossed with scars and welts, both old and new. Any hope he'd held out that the demon was lying, that the beatings had started when John was possessed, shriveled and died.

“What do you say, Sammy?” the demon continued. It dropped Dean back to the ground and stomped savagely on his hip. “Much as I've enjoyed getting my hands dirty here, I'd like to move on to bigger and better things. Like my plans for you.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Well, that's gotta go,” it shook its head. “We have to do something about the language, kiddo.”

“Not going anywhere with you,” he snarled.

“No?” the demon tried to look surprised, but its mouth pulled up in a smile. “Let's ask big brother what to do.”

“What? No, wait,” Sam pleaded. He couldn't stand to watch the thing wearing their father's body hurt his brother like this.

“Wakey-wakey!” the demon called. It rolled Dean onto his back and slapped him across the face. “Wakey-wakey or breaky-breaky, you know the drill, Dean-o.”

Dean snapped awake, looking around the room in panic until his eyes met Sam's. He sagged then, slowly, fearfully dragging his gaze back to the demon wearing his father. “How long?”

“Look who finally joins the class!” the yellow-eyed demon crowed. “Took you long enough, champ. Not long enough for you, I'm afraid. Dear old dad sure did a number on you on his own, huh?”

Dean flinched and turned his head away. The demon grabbed him by the chin and turned him back around. “Uh-uh! It's decision time for Sammy. Whaddya say—he comes with me, I teach him all about the wonderful things I have planned, and you walk out of here scot free. It's a good bargain.”

“No way,” Dean immediately tried to shake his head, but the demon's grip was firm. “Not Sammy.”

“What a broken record,” the demon complained. He released Dean and stood up, looking back and forth between the brothers. “All right. New bargain. We can all stay together, one happy little family. Just the four of us.”

Sam met Dean's gaze, read the raw helplessness there. Dean wouldn't leave him...and Sam wouldn't leave Dean. Not ever again. “You don't hurt him anymore,” Sam finally said.

The demon spread its hands. “As long as you go along with my plans, Sammy, I'd have no reason to.”

Sam looked down at the floor. It hurt too much to look at the thing possessing their father, to see for himself the damage his absence had caused.

“Boys! Shut your eyes!”

His head flew up at Bobby's voice, but he recognized the small canister just in time to slam his eyes shut and turn away. Even then the flash grenade dazzled his vision. There was the deafening roar of a shotgun, followed by the almost welcoming sound of his father screaming in pain.

The force pinning Sam to the wall suddenly evaporated and he collapsed to the floor. “Bobby?”

“Sanctified iron and holy wood,” the older hunter said, finding Sam's arm and pulling him to his feet. “I told you to wait for me, boy.”

Sam brushed off Bobby's concern and hurried over to Dean. His older brother was curled up on his side again, his arms wrapped around his head, his breath coming in short, pained pants. Sam knelt beside him and rested one hand on Dean's shoulder. “Dean? Come on, man, it's okay.”

Bobby was kneeling on Dean's other side, his face pale at the extent of the injuries. “Damn it. Should have brought something with more kick.”

“Where's the demon?”

“Gone,” Bobby shook his head. “I think I wounded it, but it ran. Took your dad with it, I'm afraid.”

Sam swallowed and looked down at Dean, who had finally managed to coordinate himself enough to grab a fistful of Sam's shirt. “Good.”

* * *

“What're you gonna do now?”

Sam accepted the bottle of water Bobby had brought to him. He shrugged in response, still too focused on the still form of his brother in the hospital bed.

He'd been surprised that Bobby had backup identities for both of them. According to this hospital they were Dean and Sam Turner, sons of Bobby's (imaginary) sister, who he'd raised from childhood. He was pretty sure the cops had bought the story of Dean seeking out his birth father only to end up beaten half to death at the hands of an unstable alcoholic, but the sooner they could leave town the better.

“I don't know. I'd like to finish the semester, but...”

“You know he'd kill himself if you gave up college for him.”

Sam glanced over at Bobby and shook his head. “I won't leave him again. Yellow-eyes could come back, or Dad could come back on his own...I want him to come with me.”

It was Bobby's turn to shake his head. “He'd never fit in at Stanford, Sam.”

“He doesn't have to,” Sam replied. He half-turned in his seat to face the older man. “Lots of hunters have day jobs, right? We could find him something—he always been good with cars and stuff like that.” He twisted the cap off the water bottle and took a long sip. “I just want to make sure he's safe.”

Bobby gently patted Sam on the wrist. “Well, you're both welcome to stay with me, long as you need. Lord knows I could use an extra hand around the place most days.”

Sam just nodded, still watching Dean's sleeping face.

“Just think about it, son,” Bobby finally said, kindly. “Ain't no reason you can't go back to school but come home to us.”

He managed to give Bobby a quick smile, but turned his attention back to his older brother when Dean shifted on the bed. Sam set the water bottle aside and took Dean's hand, leaning over him so that he would be the first thing his big brother saw.

Slowly, wearily, bruise-ringed green eyes fluttered open. Sam could see the moment his brother registered his face, and broke out into a grin as Dean, despite his battered body, tried to sit up among all the tubes and wires the hospital had stuck into him.

“It's okay, Dean,” he said. He squeezed his brother's hand and leaned in close to him so Dean could wrap his arms around Sam's shoulders. He gingerly brought one hand around to the back of Dean's neck, the only part of him, it seemed, that didn't have some kind of injury. “It's all over. You're safe now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that was heavy, I'm sorry. For the record, this is not my personal view of John. I have mixed feelings about his actions, but that's another conversation lol. There is a future chapter in this story that has John Winchester in a more positive light, so if you don't agree with this here just know there is a "John was a good dad sometimes" chapter coming. 
> 
> On a positive note, my divorce decree has finally been finalized. All of my wedding pictures are online, but as soon as quarantine ends we're printing a bunch out and having a bonfire, and you're all invited.
> 
> Stay safe out there! Always remember, Auntie Freckles loves you! (PS: If you want to be my friend on Animal Crossing I WILL send you presents all the time. Just sayin')


	5. Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Free Will is lured into a trap...and one of them might just pay with his life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Construction again all day today. So this is a little late and a little imperfect, but at least it's Cas whump?

Saltwater Springs was turning out to be a waste of time.

Dean lounged on a bench outside the library, Cas standing next to him reading the fliers on the telephone pole, as Sam climbed down the stairs to join them. “No good,” he said.

“Dude, what the hell,” Dean threw his arms out and let them fall to his sides.

“They had hard copies of the papers,” Sam continued. He handed his brother a sheet of printer paper and pulled his smart phone out, scrolling to the article that had brought them to this town. “This is the headline we found back at the bunker: 'Mutilated Remains of Missing Persons Found', but this is the hard copy of the same edition of the paper.”

“Yeah,” Dean stared down at the page in disgust. It was an article about a quilting bee at the local bingo hall—not really the kind of action they usually went for. “Someone's playing us,” he observed, disgusted, as he passed the paper over to Cas.

Sam nodded. “I talked to Jody. The sheriff in this article, Armound Baxter? He doesn't even exist.”

“Doesn't make sense,” Dean pushed off of the bench. “C'mon, let's see if we can dig anything up back at the hotel.” He lead the way toward the Impala, shaking his head at the wasted time.

Someone was walking up the sidewalk, and instead of side-stepping the group to move around them chose to slip past Dean to walk in between them. The older Winchester half-turned to snarl something—it really wasn't a good day to deal with idiot civilians—but he caught a glint of silver in the man's hand right before he collided with Cas, driving the breath out of the angel.

“Sergei sends his regards,” the man hissed, then pushed past Cas to sprint down the sidewalk away from them.

“Hey!” Dean started toward him, but Sam's cry for help wheeled him back around.

Cas had collapsed. Sam was trying to hold him up with one arm, and with the other he had bunched up a corner of Cas's trenchcoat to press against a bleeding wound in his side. “It's still in him,” he said when Dean crouched next to them. “Dean, we need to get out of here.”

Dean swore. He wanted nothing more than to chase down the bastard that had done this but Sammy was right—they had to get Cas to safety. “Hang on a second,” Dean said, resting one hand on Cas's shoulder. The angel's eyes were squeezed shut, his face tight with agony. His own hands, stained with blood and shaking badly, were resting on top of Sam's.

He ran. The Impala was only a few yards away, but Dean threw himself into the seat and drove up onto the sidewalk to get the car next to his brothers. Engine running, he hopped out and swung the door to the backseat open.

Sam had managed to get Cas to his feet, though it was clearly agonizing. They shuffled, slowly, into the car, Sam sliding in first while Dean held Cas up. Dean lowered Cas into the seat so he could lay back with his head and shoulders in Sam's lap, legs curled up on the seat.

Dean shut the door and subconsciously scrubbed his hands against the legs of his jeans. They felt sticky, and when he glanced down he could see some kind of black residue where his hands had touched Cas's blood.

“Sammy?” Dean climbed back into the car and twisted around to look over the back of the seat. His brother looked up, expression tight with worry.

“Something's wrong.”

“Yeah, understatement,” Dean nearly rolled his eyes, but the sight of Cas pale and shaking in the backseat nearly punched the sarcasm out of him. “Hang tight, we'll be back at the hotel in a minute.”

In truth, it was closer to six minutes. It wasn't technically tourist season, so no one else was hanging around at the little string of cabins on the outskirts of the city. It had seemed like a good bargain at the time—the cabins had little kitchenettes and whirlpool tubs, and even if they had been here for a job there was no harm in getting a few amenities. Now, Dean was just thankful for privacy as he and his brother pulled an ailing angel out of the car and up the few steps to the cabin.

“Here,” Dean tossed a can of spray paint at his brother. “You've got better penmanship, Samantha.”

Sam probably would have bitch-faced if he hadn't been so worried. “What should we ward against?” he asked, though it seemed to be rhetorical as he was already spraying a symbol on the back of the door.

“Cas?” Dean leaned over the angel, trying to pull the edges of his coat away. “C'mon, buddy, lemme see.”

With a groan, Cas pulled his hands away from his side. Warm blood flooded over Dean's fingers as he probed the wound, more of that black residue trickling out with it. There was something in the wound, like the blade of a penknife. Dean swore again and stood up long enough to retrieve the first aide kit.

“Hang on, man,” he murmured. The little sliver wasn't easy to grab, even with the tweezers he'd pulled out of the kit. Cas twitched and moaned, and Dean reluctantly leaned against him to hold him still so he could try to get the debris out of the wound.

The Cas gave a sharp cry and threw him off, his back arching off the floor as he shook against whatever venom was running through his body.

No, he wasn't shaking...he was seizing.

“Sammy!” Dean tried to pin down Cas's flailing shoulders to keep him from hurting himself further. Sam abandoned the warding and started shoving furniture away from the seizing angel. Cas gagged and choked and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth.

“Did he bite his tongue?” Sam asked, already tugging his flannel shirt off to wad beneath Cas's head.

Dean started to answer—though he didn't really know what to say—when Cas coughed again and gagged, his chest heaving.

“Dammit, on his side,” Sam practically shoved Dean away to roll Cas onto his side so the angel could vomit up a mouthful of blood mixed with black bile.

“Oh god...” Dean tugged the collar of Cas's shirt down a little as the angel's thrashing slowed. Dark, ropey veins were crawling up his neck. “Sam....”

“Did you get that thing out of his wound?”

“Huh?” Dean looked up from where he'd been loosening Cas's tie in some pitiful attempt to make him more comfortable. “Oh, uh, no, I couldn't.”

Sam nodded and quickly picked up the tweezers Dean had abandoned at the start of Cas's seizure. “Hold him still while I try to get it, okay?”

Dean glanced down at Cas's face, then up at Sam's. The younger Winchester looked about as shaken as Dean himself felt—these symptoms were all too similar to what Cas had gone through with the Lance of Michael. Dean shuffled around so he was out of Sam's way and braced one arm across Cas's chest, all but lying behind him to keep him steady. Cas's breath was coming in these horrible, painful jerks that shook his entire body every time, but Dean did what he could.

“Got it,” Sam announced, leaning back with a sliver of metal in the grip of the tweezers. “It's not a knife, it almost looks like part of a syringe.”

“What?” Dean squinted up at the object.

“I don't know,” Sam replied. He leaned up to snag the ashtray off one of the end tables and dropped the offending item into it. “See? It looks more like the tip of a needle than anything else.”

Dean took the ashtray and studied the contents. He'd eased up off of Cas as the angel's thrashing seemed to calm with the weapon removed from him, though he stayed close just in case.

It did kind of look like a syringe needle, but it was bigger than one Dean had ever seen. It was flat, too, instead of round like all of the needles Dean had seen.

“Dean.” He jerked his head up at Sam's voice. The younger Winchester had been trying to peel Cas's clothing away from the wound, and held his hand out with a few fragments of glass. Clinging to one side of the glass was a familiar black sludge.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmured. He held the ashtray out and Sam dropped the fragments in. “What do you think it was?”

“No way to tell,” Sam shook his head. “What did he say? Sergei sends his regards?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Wasn't that...wasn't that the guy Cas got the archangel grace from?”

Sam's brow furrowed in thought, but he nodded along with Dean. “I think so. I think Cas talked to him recently.”

If Cas had done something to screw this guy over...well, a guy who held on to a vial of archangel grace could have any number of nasty other surprises.

Cas moaned. Dean leaned down over him, resting the backs of his fingers against the angel's sweaty cheek. “You back with us, Cas?”

His question was met with another moan of pain as Sam pulled some clean gauze out of the first aide kit to wipe some of the blood away from around the wound site. “Keep talking to him, Dean.”

Dean waved his hand in his brother's direction and scooted around so he was facing Cas more directly. “Talk to me, man. What's going on?”

“...dark...”

“Hmm?” Dean tried to lean in closer, but Cas shuddered and coughed up another dribble of black-tinged blood. “Sorry, man, what was that?”

“It's...dark.”

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. “Like the room? Like you can't see?”

The angel slowly dragged a hand up to his chest. “In-inside.” His voice broke off with a pained whimper when Sam pressed a pad of gauze over the wound.

“Inside you?” Dean asked. Cas gave a small nod before his body was wracked with another spasm and he coughed up more blood.

Dean rocked back on his heels. What kind of poison, or venom, or toxin, or whatever did this? He looked over at Sam, but the younger Winchester was staring at the wound with a strange look on his face. “Sammy?”

“We've seen this before, Dean,” Sam replied.

“We have?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“It was affecting humans, but it makes sense it would be more severe with an angel.”

“Dammit, Sammy, this isn't the time for riddles!”

Sam blinked and shook himself. “The Darkness. Remember? The illness in the hospital?”

“Yeah, but that made them crazy, it didn't make them like this,” Dean argued. Cas was shaking again, and he coughed up another mouthful of blood before turning enough to bury his face in Sam's flannel shirt with a pitiful moan. Dean absently rubbed his shoulder, wishing he had something more comforting to say or do.

“That was humans,” Sam was saying. “Angels...Chuck created the angels more directly, right? They're his first creations, they're closer in nature to him than we are. Remember when Amara hurt Chuck? When he was dying? What if this is something similar?”

“The Darkness plague was destroyed when Chuck came back, though,” Dean argued.

“Someone who got his hands on a vial of archangel grace would have had the resources to get Amara's plague.”

Cas coughed again and tried to raise his head. “Sam's...r-right,” he rasped. “Felt this...felt this before. With Luci...Lucifer.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean awkwardly patted Cas's shoulder again. “Okay, saying this is the same thing...what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

Sam was giving Cas that odd look again. Dean kicked him in the knee and he seemed to pull out of whatever head-in-ass he'd been doing. “I know something to try. It's just...Cas, do you trust me?”

* * *

This had to be the worst idea in the history of worst ideas.

Dean had settled cross-legged on the floor, pulling as much of Cas's head and shoulders into his lap as he could. They'd pushed everything out of the living room, but the little cabin still wasn't built for something like this.

“You have to keep him still,” Sam repeated for about the sixth time since they'd started this hare-brained scheme. “He has to be able to breathe in the smoke, but one touch to the flames-”

“I've got it, Sammy,” Dean snapped. Sam bitch-faced at him, then slowly began pouring holy oil in a circle around them.

Holy fire.

It had cured the humans of the plague, but it was one of the things in the mortal plane that could actually damage an angel permanently. It was a profound measure of his trust in them that Castiel was huddled on the floor in the center of the circle, allowing himself to be trapped in a ring of flames despite the terrible damage left by the poison twisting itself through his veins that left him vulnerable.

“Ready?”

Dean almost laughed. “Not really.”

Sam made a face at him.“Lighting up,” he warned, then touched a match to the flames.

Cas whimpered and tried to curl further into Dean's grasp, away from the fire. Sam paced back and forth on the other side of the flames, his face twisted in worry, a heavy blanket clasped in his hands to smother the holy fire as soon as the cure worked.

 _If_ it worked.

“Come on, buddy,” Dean tried to coax Cas to at least sit up a little. “You've gotta be able to breathe the smoke, remember?”

Cas nodded and tried to push away from Dean, but his arms seemed to weak to even hold him up. Dean gently lifted him, resting Cas's head on his shoulder, and leaned as close to the flames as he dared. Cas shuddered, coughed on the smoke, then nearly threw Dean off as he blindly flailed away from it.”

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean shouted. He managed to grab Cas by the wrists and twist around to pin the angel to the floor beneath him. “I know it sucks man, I know it's scary, but it's the only thing we've got. This stuff is gonna rot you alive from the inside out if we don't cure it, and holy fire's the only way. Just a few more minutes, Cas, that's all.”

The angel writhed, twisting against Dean's hold. Cas's head slammed into Dean's nose and the hunter jerked his head back with a curse, stars exploding in his vision. The angel managed to twist away enough to get his hands and knees under him, but he collapsed to the floor to cough and retch as more blood and bile was forced out of his body.

Dean wrapped an arm around Cas's chest to pull him away from the fluids he'd expelled, but Cas jerked in his grasp and coughed out more viscous black...yuck. There wasn't a word for it. It wasn't quite liquid...it was almost like Cas was coughing up watery black glue. The angel was moaning in earnest now, drawing in horrible shaking breaths between retching.

“I've gotcha, you're all right,” Dean murmured. He left one hand looped around Cas's chest, more to help him stable than to restrain him now, and gently carded the other through the dark hair. “Just get it up, man. It's gonna be okay.”

Cas heaved one last time, retching emptily, then collapsed into Dean's hold, his body limp and unresponsive.

“Sammy!” Dean called, but Sam was already smothering the fire. As soon as he had room Dean pulled Cas away from the puddle of horrible fluids and laid him down on the floor, using the sleeve of Sam's now-ruined flannel shirt to wipe a bit of the black stuff away from Cas's mouth.

The dark veins had faded, the angel's skin smooth and healthy beneath his stained clothing. Sam lifted up the hem of Cas's shirt to check the would and nodded in satisfaction at the small, puckered scar that was already beginning to fade away.

“Cas?” Dean leaned over the angel, still unable to believe it had worked. “Can you hear us, man?”

Cas managed to peel his eyes open to look at Dean, and though he seemed too exhausted for words there was a little of the old, familiar attitude in the gaze...a bit of the old 'I can't help but hear you when you seem incapable of silence' in his eyes.

Dean let out a relieved chuckle and patted Cas on the chest. “Just get some rest, buddy. We gotta be out of here before housekeeping notices we redecorated.”

Sam looked around, taking in the burned ring on the floor and the smoke damage on the ceiling. “Man, and I kind of liked this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly feel like Cas is going to face some kind of consequence for threatening Sergei's niece. 
> 
> Stay safe out there! Give your pets a hug for me. If you don't have pets, a favorite stuffed animal or video game (hey, they need love, too!). Or a person, I guess. 
> 
> One of my pets is trying to steal my turkey jerky snack. Sorry, Phil, this is all mine!


	6. Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Pre-series) Dean meets up with another hunter to investigate a vampire nest, but soon finds himself in over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set pre-series, a few years before season one begins. Dean is twenty-two, so Sam left for college fairly recently and Dean has only just started hunting on his own.

Dean slid onto the bar stool and signaled the bartender for a beer. He dropped his notepad on the counter next to the bottle, staring morosely at the few notes he'd managed to take during his interviews.

Cattle mutilations. Missing tourists. Grave desecration. Strange noises in the night, strange lights in the desert.

It all should have pointed to something big and nasty, but he was coming up with nothing. If his dad was here he'd probably take one look at the data, declare it to be some ancient Mayan killer rabbit up from Mexico, and already have a plan to kill it.

But John was in Salt Lake City meeting Caleb for a big case and he'd let his oldest son take this hunt in New Mexico on his own. Dean was a little proud of the confidence his dad was showing in him by giving him this hunt...at least 'don't make a mess' was probably a sign of confidence. At least Dad couldn't slap him with a curfew and make him run extra laps just because slipped up and cussed in front of the ME when they were in different states...although Dean was half convinced his father would know, _somehow_ , and show up at any minute.

Dean took another swallow of beer and turned to a fresh page. Sam had always been better at the research, always had that mind to get the data together and line it up in a way that made sense. But Sammy was off at Stanford, and it would take an act of God for him to come back to his life.

Besides, he could just see the look on his dad's face if he ran off to _Sammy_ at the first sign of trouble.

“Lemme guess. Cattle mutilations?”

Dean glanced at the man who had settled into the seat next to him. It was an older guy, maybe a few years younger than John, with a wispy brown beard and a grin that was just a little too wide. “What?” Dean finally asked, pushing as much annoyance into his voice as he could.

“You're here about the cattle mutilations,” the man stated. “So what's your cover, hmm? FDA? FBI? Wildlife Service? Ooh, or maybe a reporter for one of those supermarket tabloids?”

“Listen, buddy, I don't know what you're talking about,” Dean replied. He flipped his notepad closed and tucked it back into his pocket.

“Russel Holmes,” the man interjected, sticking a hand in Dean's face.

Dean stared at the offered hand and back up to the bearded face. “That's nice,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Look, buddy, I don't know what you're selling, but I'm not interested.”

“I know you're a hunter,” Russel said, dropping his voice to nearly a whisper. “I know what you're tracking. It's bigger than both of us, pal.”

There were plenty of unspoken rules about being a hunter, and not announcing yourself in public to anyone who would listen was one of them. “Is it deer season already?” Dean asked. He took another swallow of his beer and tried to turn his back on Russel.

“It's vampire season.”

Dean froze. He slowly turned back, eyeing the rest of the room to see if anyone had heard Russel's pronouncement. “Vampires?”

Russel's grin widened, if that were possible. “I knew it. I can smell another hunter from a mile away.”

He hesitated, but Dean finally extended his own hand, which the older man shook vigorously. “Dean.”

“C'mon,” Russel picked up his own beer and nodded back at a booth in the back corner. “I've got something to show you.

* * *

“They're covering their tracks,” Russel explained, once they'd settled in the booth. It was quiet and more private than the main floor of the bar, and Dean had the impression most people didn't stay in this dive longer than they had to. “Fake trails. Imitating other monsters. I've been tracking them since Mississippi, every time I get close they move along.” He'd pulled a battered notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open to show Dean. “See? They're following the highway here, picking up little towns here and there to suck dry.”

“I haven't heard of any vamp movements,” Dean protested, but Russel's information was intriguing. He had to admit, the older man seemed to have a handle on what was going on.

“They've been breaking up, traveling in twos and threes,” Russel explained. “I think they're planning to make a run for Mexico. I've been seeing groups of 'em trickle in, there's about a dozen here now.”

Dean let out a whistle. There was a list of towns on one page of the notebook, each one with a corresponding date and some other numbers written in what looked like Russel's personal shorthand. “And you've been trailing them since Mississippi?”

“Yeah. That's...” Russel swallowed hard, his gaze dropped to his hands where his fingers were fidgeting with the label on his beer bottle. “They got my partner there. Lynn. She was...she was everything.”

“I'm sorry, man,” Dean shook his head. “That's terrible.”

“I haven't been able to take 'em out on my own,” Russel continued, seeming to rally a little. “I've picked off stragglers as I can, but I think they know I'm on to them. If I don't get 'em soon they'll be over the border and out of my reach.”

“Yeah...” Dean frowned down at the list of dates. The times in between towns were pretty steady, between six and nine days each. To him it looked more like a set pattern of movement than a band of vamps on the run from a hunter. “You think they know you're here?”

“Gotta act like they do, right?” Russel gently took the notebook out of Dean's hands. “Look, kid, I wouldn't normally approach a stranger like this but I'm getting desperate. If they get away from me and leave the country I might never catch up to them, so I need your help.”

“It's just not a lot to go on, man,” Dean shook his head. “Look, I appreciate that you're on a deadline and all, but it just doesn't add up.”

“Dammit, son, do I need to spell it out for you?” Russel slammed his notebook down on the table and leaned back in the booth seat with a frown. “All right. Fine. I've got more info back at my room. Articles, autopsy reports, security camera footage. Would that convince you?”

Dean felt like shit. He'd been striking out on this case and here was someone practically begging him for help, and he was digging his heels in because he couldn't understand the guy's notebook. Sammy or Dad would have cracked it at a look, probably pinned down how many vamps and where they were crashed, and had a plan to handle all of this in the time it had taken Dean to peel the barcode off his beer bottle.

“Sorry, kid,” Russel said, his voice gentle again. “Look, you don't have a reason to trust me-”

“No, it's okay,” Dean ducked his head. “You're right. Lemme see the other stuff you've got, we can come up with a plan, okay?”

Russel's face broke out in that smile again, the one that seemed just a little too wide. “Perfect! Room 16-B at the Lady of the Lake, okay? I'll meet you there?”

Dean nodded, still a little embarrassed to meet the other man's eye. He was good with people, everyone knew that. But Dad had kind of thrown him out here without a life jacket and he was really wishing for someone to help with the information side of things.

He hesitated for a moment before pulling his phone out. Dad didn't answer the call, of course, but Dean felt better at least leaving a voicemail. “Hey Dad. I met up with this hunter, Russel Holmes. Turns out there's a vamp nest here, and he thinks they're headed to Mexico. I'm not sure but, hey, bloodsuckers gotta go either way, right?” he forced a laugh, glancing around the restaurant to be sure no one was paying attention. “Talk to you soon, Dad. Say hi to Caleb for me.”

Dean closed the phone and stood up, adjusting his jacket. He dropped a few dollars in the tip jar at the bar and waved away the bartender's thanks—poor girl was working with one arm in a cast, that had to suck.

The Lady of the Lake was just the sort of hotel Sammy would have gone crazy for. It had some weird King Arthur theme going on, including a miniature golf course on what passed for a lawn in southern New Mexico and suits of armor in the main lobby.

He found 16-B easily enough and a grinning Russel let him in as soon as he knocked. The room was as full of tacky decor as he could have hoped, but he barely noticed that in favor of the map Russel had pinned to the wall.

Every town the man had listed in his notebook was marked on the map, with colored string leading off to another section of the wall where documents about that place had been pinned up. Dean stepped up closer, following some of the lines to newspaper clippings or photocopies of autopsy reports. The one from Mississippi lead to a photo of Russel and a blonde woman, presumable Lynn.

“See?” Russel traced his finger along the highlighted path the vampires had been following. “Don't know if it started with me, but they're making their way to Mexico.”

He had to admit, it did look like that. Maybe he'd missed something with the dates in Russel's notebook...maybe there was something else the man had seen that indicated the vamps were in a hurry. “So, what's the next step? Find out where they're hiding?”

“Oh, I know that.”

Dean turned to face Russel, nearly taking a step back at the look on the other man's face. He was still grinning that wide, unsettling grin and as Dean watched the man's teeth seemed to narrow into points. “The hell?”

Russel pounced.

The world went black.

* * *

It was all coming back slowly, disjointed pieces bouncing around in his brain. The bar. Russel. The bartender with one arm in a cast. The call to Dad (unanswered as usual). Sammy in a Stanford University T-shirt, rolling his eyes and telling Dean to be careful. His dad showing up, dressed like drill sergeant, ordering him to pull the Impala back to Bobby's house to make up for his mistakes.

“Come one, kid.” A rough hand tapped his cheek. “I know you're awake. It's no fun if you're not.”

Dean groaned and managed to peel his eyes open, glaring up at Russel's grinning face. “You're not Jennifer Lopez,” he complained.

“Least you've got guts,” Russel commented. He squatted down to be at Dean's level and shook the ropes binding Dean's hands to some kind of post above his head. “Too bad you don't listen to 'em.”

He was too tired for this. His head hurt, he could tell there was blood drying in his hair, and if the movement behind Russel was anything to go by the man hadn't been lying about the number of vampires in this nest. “So, what, is this your cupboard? Bloody Marys all around?”

“I wasn't lying when I said I could sniff out a hunter,” Russel said, ignoring Dean's comment. “How do you think we've kept a nest this size alive for so long? Scent out any hunter nosing in on our business and...well, you said it. Bloody Marys all around.”

Dean grunted and shook at the ropes on his wrists. Russel just chuckled and walked away, stopping to pick up a wicked-looking knife on a rickety table nearby. “I just couldn't resist you, Dean. It's not every day a Winchester just blunders right into your hands. Your dad, he probably wouldn't have fallen for it, but you?”

He seemed about to monologue—Dean hated when they monologued—when a female vamp burst into the room through the open door. Dirty blonde hair brushed her shoulders, blue eyes set in a pretty face were wide with panic. “Someone's here, Russ.” she said in a rush. “Dennis isn't answering, and Lori thought she saw something in the bushes.”

Russel growled. “Keep an eye on the boy, Lynn. Could be another hunter.”

The woman nodded. Dean leaned back against the rough wall he was tied to. Now that his head was clearer he could see that he was in an old barn, and Russel had him tied up in what used to be a tack room. “Lynn? As in the partner killed by vamps in Mississippi?”

Lynn snarled, revealing a mouth full of unpleasant fangs. “Meat shouldn't talk.”

“And we were getting along so well,” Dean taunted. He wasn't a match in strength for a vampire, not tied up like this, so his only chance was to get her mad enough to make a mistake. “Lemme guess...Russel there turned first and you just couldn't live without him?”

“He gave me a gift,” she spat.

“You mean I was right?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, lady, but doesn't turning into the undead make you...I don't know, kind of desperate? I mean, I know the vows say 'till death do us part' but I'm pretty sure that's where it ends.”

Lynn gave a shriek of rage and charged at him, slapping him across the face before grabbing him by the lapels to hoist him up so he was staring at her face-to-face. “You know nothing,” she hissed.

“I know how to kill you.”

With another scream Lynn tore him free of his bonds and spun around to throw him into the opposite wall. He barely had time to pull himself up from the debris on the floor before she was on him, knife in hand, slashing at his face when he brought up his arms to block.

The blade and tore into his forearms, burning with every slash. She threw the knife away after a few seconds and spun him around, slamming him face-first into the ground. “Bloody Marys all around?” Lynn hissed in his ear.

Then her teeth were in his neck. Dean cried out and tried to struggle away, but the vampire's grip was too strong. He flailed around on the floor, desperate, and finally found a jagged piece of wood. It couldn't kill her, but he hoped it hurt like a sonunvabitch when he stabbed her in the thigh with it. Lynn shrieked and pulled herself away, yanking out the piece of wood with one hand.

“You'll pay for that,” she snarled.

Dean was trying to crawl away, even if it was futile. His arms dragged painfully along the ground, the bloody slashes leaving a trail behind him. Lynn was stronger, virtually unharmed, and vicious enough to drain him dry without a second's thought.

But Winchesters never gave up without a fight.

He'd almost reached the door when Lynn seized him around the ankle and jerked him back into the room. She swung him through the air and he cried out when something in his knee gave at the motion, then slammed back into the wall where Russel had left him tied up.

“Meat doesn't leave,” Lynn sneered. She wrapped one hand around his throat and hauled him up to eye level. Her fangs glinted in the dim light of the barn as she opened her mouth, nearly hissing in anticipation.

There was a strange sound, almost like a bow twanging, and Lynn dropped him to stumble back. Her hands flew to her neck where a little tufted feather stuck out of a small dart. She managed to pull the dart out and stared at it unsteadily. “Dead...man's...” Lynn shook herself. She glanced up at Dean, fangs extending in a low growl. “You little-”

Before Dean could respond...hell, before he could process anything...a tall figure stepped into the room and swung a machete like a baseball bat to separate Lynn's head from her shoulders.

“You okay, kiddo?”

Dean stared up in confusion. His head had struck the wall pretty hard that last time, that was the only thing that made sense. This had to be another one of those confusing concussion dreams.

“Caleb?”

* * *

The couch was lumpy beneath him, but even with what the old hunter's cabin lacked in creature comforts it more than made up for by _not_ being a hospital.

Dean couldn't remember much beyond Caleb neatly knocking Lynn-the-vampire's head off, as the latest blow to his head combined with blood loss had resulted in a very un-Winchesterly passing out. But he'd never been more thankful, especially when he opened his eyes and found himself stretched out on that horrible, lumpy couch...with his father in a nearby chair.

“Dad?” Dean winced and swallowed. His voice was cracking, his throat dry, and he was immediately grateful when his father helped him sit up and held a glass of water so he could take a drink.

“How are you feeling?” John asked.

“Okay, I guess,” Dean shrugged. “Ready to get back out there.”

John gave him The Look. The one that had Dean squirming in his seat, for all that he was twenty-two now and not a mischievous twelve-year-old who'd decided to try Dad's “Special Juice”.

“Your knee was dislocated,” John finally said after a few long seconds. “Your arms needed thirty-one stitches. You lost over two pints of blood. If Caleb hadn't shown up in time you would be dead, Dean.”

Dean looked down at his hands, resting on top of a threadworn blanket. “Yes, sir.” There were bumps and bruises, too. He couldn't remember how many times Lynn had tossed him around, but most of his back was a mass of aches.

“You ran off with a strange hunter, Dean,” John continued. He was standing next to the couch now, arms folded, looming over his son with his larger-than-life presence. “It would have taken you five minutes to call someone to check on him. Russel Holmes has been bad news for years now. Any hunter worth his salt would have known to check the man's story.”

He swallowed and nodded, still focused on his hands. He could have made an excuse—that the other man had conned him, that the information seemed genuine—but it would just make things worse. “Sorry, Dad.”

John let out a sigh. “Well, here,” he said, tossing Russel's notebook into Dean's lap. “You can try to decipher this while you recuperate. Could be Russel left clues for the rest of his vamp friends in there.”

Dean pulled a face, but the sight of his father leaning in over him had him focusing more closely on the book. “Yes, sir.”

The older man sighed. “Just don't do this again, all right? I was worried.”

He almost looked up at that, but his father's tone of voice was almost void of affection at the moment. It felt like John had been worried the way he worried over a check engine light in his truck, or a jammed trigger in one of his guns...worried that one of his tools wasn't working properly. “Sorry, Dad,” Dean said again.

A broad, warm hand settled on his shoulder. “Be careful, Dean. Other hunters can't always be trusted. Always check with someone—me, or Caleb, or even Bobby.”

Dean nodded again. John patted him on the shoulder, then walked away to where a duffel bag had been sitting unnoticed near the door. “You're leaving?” Dean called after him, not quite keeping the desperation out of his voice.

“I had to leave a case in Salt Lake City,” John replied. He slung the bag over his shoulder and pinned Dean to the spot with severe expression. “I won't always be able to clean up your messes, Dean. Just remember that.”

He swallowed and looked down, trying desperately to be a man and not cry like a little girl at the thought of his dad abandoning him at some crappy cabin just because he'd screwed up on a hunt.

“Hey, kiddo, cheer up,” Caleb gently patted the same shoulder that John had touched and settled on the coffee table next to Dean. “You know your old man isn't great with words. He only gets constipated because he cares.”

Dean swiped one hand at his eyes and tried to smile at the older hunter. “No, he's right. I'm keeping you from something important because I screwed up.”

“You're important, too,” Caleb replied gently. He had a plate in his hand, and when he put it on Dean's lap the younger man realized it was holding a slice of pie. “There's more in the fridge, and the TV just picks up Telemundo but soaps are soaps, right?”

Caleb winked and patted his shoulder again before standing up to retrieve his own bags. “Take care of yourself, kiddo,” he called over his shoulder. “I'll make the old man call when his bowels loosen up again.”

Dean felt something in his chest loosen up at Caleb's words, and he might have laughed if he hadn't felt so miserable. He heard Dad's truck start up outside, then the crunch of gravel as John and Caleb headed back toward Salt Lake City and whatever big case was important enough to leave Dean behind.

Whatever. Not like he needed them there anyway. He clicked the television on and took a big bite of pie, shoving Russel's notebook onto the floor.

He'd be fine on his own. He'd prove it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of The Bells of Notre Dame, who is the monster and who is the man?
> 
> Well, obviously the vampires were the monsters. But you know what I mean.
> 
> Stay safe out there! If quarantine is lifting where you live, please be careful. I know this might be frustrating and taking precautions can be exhausting, but take care of yourself. You wouldn't want to leave me in a cold, cruel, Carlos-less world, would you? (Don't know why I said that, I'm definitely not Jill Valentine in this situation.)


	7. Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a pair of angels decides to go through Rowena to get to Castiel, they learn the hard way that you should never piss off a Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'm gonna be able to stay on the every other day schedule right now. I started getting sick on Wednesday, and my doctor thought it was serious enough to send me to get tested for covid. Results won't be back until this weekend or early next week. I'm mostly just exhausted right now, but I'm enjoying writing when I have the energy for it.
> 
> This chapter needs a little bit of warning for some slight naughtiness...but it's a Rowena chapter, what did you expect?

“Liliana!” Rowena held her hands out to the younger witch, a smile dimpling her cheeks. “My dear, it's been too long.”

Liliana had been born some time in the 1800s, though she had not been blessed with the same delicate figure Rowena had. Liliana was tall and blocky with broad features that seemed twisted in a permanent scowl, and though Rowena would love to say her fellow witch was a delight to be around...well, not everyone was made to bring joy to those around them.

“Rowena,” Liliana stiffly accepted the kiss on her cheek. Her hair had long gone to gray—though she seemed to have mastered extending her years as a witch, they had not been kind to her. “I didn't believe it when you contacted me after all this time.”

“Yes, well,” Rowena glanced around the stuffy little apartment for a place to sit, but it seemed every flat surface was covered in some sort of ugly primitive curio. “Times are changing on us, aren't they, dear?”

“I hear you're working with angels.”

Rowena arched an eyebrow at the other witch. “Angels? Come, now, Liliana, don't be silly.” After all, it wasn't _angels_ plural, it was one, and her tweety-bird hardly counted. He was as good as human anyway, in morals if not powers.

“Now, I had something important to ask you,” Rowena continued. She finally located a bare spot on an end table and set her carryall down to rummage through the contents. “You've made pacts with some of the native pagans, yes? I could use their help for a spell.”

“Why not ask them yourself? I don't remember you ever shying away from confrontation.”

Rowena smiled sweetly at the other witch. “These things take time, dear. Time we may not have.” The signs she'd read had been downright terrifying, and if she was correct they were facing an old power the world hadn't seen since the dawn of civilization.

“I think we all have time,” a third voice announced.

She turned slowly, staring at the man in an ill-fitting suit who'd appeared from another doorway. “Slumming it, Liliana?”

“You have your angels, I have mine,” Liliana retorted. “Ones that are very interested in the company you've been keeping.”

Rowena whirled around to snatch a handful of powder out of a side compartment of her bag—one didn't get to be an arch-witch without keeping a few tricks up one's sleeve—but another angel behind her grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise.

“We understand you might know the location of the seraph Castiel,” the first angel intoned. “Where is he?”

Keeping her face carefully blank, Rowena stared up into the pitiless gaze. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Something metallic snapped around her wrist and she glared up at the angel holding her. “Is that strictly necessary?”

The second angel glowered down at her—it would appear he had not been gifted with the art of speech, as he left all spoken communication to his associate.

“Do you know who we are?” the first angel asked.

Rowena pulled her hand away from the second angel, rubbing the tender skin where a metal band was now binding her powers like a miniature version of a witch catcher. “Tweedle A and Tweedle B?” she asked with a sniff.

“We are Heaven's witchcraft specialist,” Tweedle A continued as though he hadn't heard her. “The corrupt souls, whores of the devil, foul temptresses of the pit-”

“I beg your pardon,” Rowena pulled herself up with a derisive snort. “I'll have you know the devil and I were never on the best terms. He killed me, and I sent him to the bottom of the ocean.”

Tweedle B loomed closer to her, but it was obvious by now that he was only there as an intimidating physical presence and not the secret brains behind the operation. “Don't start, dear, you'll strain something,” Rowena simpered, patting Tweedle B on the chest. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“The seraph Castiel,” Tweedle A repeated. He tried to stride toward her threateningly, but a curio-covered end table nearly tangled up his legs. “We know you are associated with him. And the spawn of the fallen star, the father of lies, the-”

“Oh, you mean Jack?” Rowena smiled up at the angel. “He's such a dear, isn't he?” She managed to slip one hand into her pocket unnoticed—she had enchanted the screen of her smart phone so that all she had to do was trace a rune onto it and it would send a beacon out to Sam Winchester.

“Do not compound your abominations with your lecherous desires, witch!” Tweedle A shouted.

Rowena tsked and crossed her arms. “Have you no shame? He's only three years old. Far, far too young for a woman of my caliber. Besides, Jack might be a dear, but entanglements with celestials are never worth the brief...some might say _small_...pleasure.”

Tweedle A snarled and backhanded Rowena. She stumbled back against Tweedle B and fought for balance, though the silent angel had a grip on her upper arms this time.

“Enough,” Tweedle A stormed in closer and grabbed her by the chin, twisting her face up so he could look down into it. “You will tell us where to find the traitor or we will pull it out of the filthy stain you call a soul.”

Rowena met his gaze, lifting her chin even higher. “Try your best, dear.”

* * *

She'd lived through more witch hunts than history itself could recall. While it was clear that Tweedle A and Tweedle B had some techniques, they lacked the sort of discipline true torture required.

Oh, it was uncomfortable. But they were giving her far too long to catch her breath, easing up if she started crying, and more than once had stopped completely because she promised to give them the information.

It hurt, of course—it was still torture—but there was something satisfying in seeing the two high-and-mighty angels completely at a loss as to how to break one little witch.

“Why are you even fighting them?” Liliana demanded. That was, probably, the worst of this little kidnapping. The angels had let dear, sweet Liliana stick around to glower in the corner and make vague disparaging comments at Rowena when the Tweedles needed a break.

“Why are you working with them?” Rowena countered. They'd been doing something nasty with pins this time...Rowena herself had been questioning why she hadn't just turned Castiel over to them, but there was this little glimmer of fondness. Since she'd been—somehow—adopted into their little team those boys had actually given her something she wanted to protect. Not quite a family, perhaps, but the kind of friendship she hadn't experienced in a very long time.

“You know where we go when we die,” Liliana said. “We're doomed to hell. Witchcraft rots the soul until only the devil will accept it.”

“Auch, you sound like them,” Rowena rolled her eyes. She shifted a little on her feet—the rope tying her hands over her head really was uncomfortable. It had taken ages to get her nails right, magic just couldn't compare to a proper French manicure. “A true witch doesn't fear hell, Liliana.”

“They can get me to heaven,” the younger witch replied triumphantly. “All I had to do was turn you over to them, and they would make sure my soul goes to heaven.”

Rowena tilted her head and stared at the other woman pityingly. “My dear, don't tell me you actually believe them?”

Liliana's lips curled back in a snarl, but before she could answer the door slammed open again and the Tweedles strode in. “Have you thought about our offer?” Tweedle A asked.

“Have you thought about mine?” Rowena countered sweetly.

“I didn't...what offer?” Tweedle A looked confused, staring over at Tweedle B for help.

“Let me go, and I won't give your location to the Winchesters.”

Tweedle A laughed and lunged forward, his fingers digging into Rowena's pale throat. “I'm not afraid of the Winchesters,” he sneered into her face.

“Good...” Rowena rasped. “Have fun.”

Liliana gave a scream of rage and dove for the door as Sam Winchester kicked it in. The younger witch caught him off guard and he brought one arm up to block her, but she was easily torn away from him by the second figure through the door.

“Castiel!” Tweedle A released Rowena and turned to the newcomers with outspread arms. “I knew you wouldn't stay away.”

“Jochebed,” Castiel glowered at Tweedle A. “Does Naomi know you've left Heaven?”

“We're doing this for her,” Tweedle A insisted, as Dean followed Castiel into the room and was immediately pulled into the fight with Liliana. She was trying to resurrect some kind of clay golem from an artifact in her crowded kitchen, but when Dean pulled a gun on her she began shrieking and just throwing things at the boys.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at Dean and pulled himself up a little. “That is _not_ what she said.”

Rowena snorted in a very unladylike way. How long had the older Winchester been coaxing his little angel on gems like that? Tweedle A and Tweedle B stared at Castiel in confusion for a few moments, then rushed at him, angel blades at the ready.

She was sure these battles were more interesting in heaven, or perhaps when you could see their true forms clashing with the physical world, but this seemed...dull. It seemed the Tweedles had about as much finesse with hand-to-hand combat as they had with interrogation method, and Castiel was having to hold back to keep from killing them outright.

“Cas!” Dean had pulled himself away from the fight and was leaning against the kitchen doorway, one hand bloody. Behind him Sam had managed to pin Lilian's hands to the counter, but she was kicking him in the knees and screeching really horrible insults in Latin.

Judging by the look on Sam's face, not only had he understood her, but her grammar was truly atrocious.

“Ready,” Castiel called back to Dean. The older Winchester slammed one hand onto the wall, and in a flash of light and a scream of alarm (from Tweedle B, surprisingly) all three angels vanished.

Sam finally managed to subdue Liliana and hurried over to Rowena. “Are you okay?” he asked as he gently lifted her bound wrists free of the hook in the wall. “You're hurt.”

“I'll be fine, Samuel,” Rowena replied, trying to reassure him. She was a little surprised that her voice was shaking. She was even more surprised when, after Sam untied her wrists and pulled her close to wrap his enormous arms around her tiny frame she sank against him with something like a sob.

“It's okay now,” Sam was saying, patting her back gently. “We've got you, you'll be find now.”

Rowena pulled away, wiping at her eyes furiously. Allies or not, it simply would not do to show such signs of weakness. “The angels?”

“He's not picking up,” Dean complained. The older Winchester was pacing back and forth now, phone pressed to his ear. “Dammit, come on, Cas. This was a really stupid plan.”

“He'll be fine,” Sam replied. He'd found Rowena a place to sit by sweeping a pile of manuscripts out of a chair. He was now crouched beside her picking at the bracelet the angels had used to bind her witchcraft.

“I just don't like it when—Cas!” Dean whirled around to face Sam and Rowena. “Where are...no, that's good. Let Naomi take care of them. What?” he pulled the phone away to stare at it and replaced it. “No, Cas, I didn't hear that. I was a little occupied at the time. Yes, I'm sure you said it just like I taught you. Cas... _Cas_... Castiel! Where are you?”

Sam bent lower over the cuff, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Rowena pressed the fingers of her free hand to her mouth to hide her smile, but it was obvious by the way Dean glared at them both and turned away that he'd noticed.

“Like a mother hen who's lost her chick, isn't he?” she murmured to Sam.

He snorted. “I don't know why he gets like this, Cas can more than handle a banishment.”

“It's adorable,” she replied, her tone scolding a little. “Let your brother fuss if it makes him happy.”

Ears suspiciously red now, Dean pocketed his phone and turned to face them. “He's at a Starbucks a couple hours away. He's supposed to be ordering a large coffee and waiting for us to pick him up.”

With a satisfying click, the cuff on her wrist fell away. She accepted Sam's help to her feet as they followed Dean out of Liliana's tacky apartment (Liliana had vanished shortly after the angels had, and it gave Rowena some dark pleasure to think her former friend might soon be the target of Tweedle A and Tweedle B's witch hunt).

“Sam?” she touched the taller hunter on the elbow to get his attention as they walked out into the hall. “Just how much espresso can an angel drink?”

They made it to the Starbucks in an hour and a half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there! Wash your hands after reading this so you don't catch a deadly computer virus!


	8. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious ailment strikes down one of Team Free Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How ironic that this is the chapter I fell behind on...
> 
> I was sick last Wednesday, sick enough for my doctor to send me for Covid testing. It came back negative and I'm doing better now, but I was down for a few days and couldn't do anything. Not even write. I'm gonna try to catch up on this, but I don't want to promise just in case.
> 
> This turned out angstier that I expected. Little warning for grossness - a character is sick and there is some talk of throwing up, but nothing graphic.

Sam had learned to treasure moments like this, when Dean and Cas were out on a grocery run and he had nothing better to do than catch up on some reading with a cup of coffee. It was rare that their life was actually quiet these days, so they all took the chance for a day off when they could.

He should have known they were asking for trouble.

“Dean! I do not have 'bird flu'!”

Sam raised his eyebrows and set his book down as Cas stormed through the room, grocery bags in hand.

“Come on, man, it was just a joke,” Dean called, trailing behind. He caught Sam's questioning eye and smirked. “Dude had like four sneezes in a row in the car. Thought he was gonna bang his forehead on the dashboard he was sneezing so hard.”

Sam shook his head. “Leave him alone, Dean. People sneeze.”

“ _People_ sneeze,” Dean retorted, pointing a finger at Sam. “ _Angels_ get their trench coats in a twist and ask why their face is exploding.”

“He did not,” Sam called after Dean as he pushed himself up to follow.

“Well, maybe not,” Dean admitted. “Damn, where'd he go?”

The grocery bags had been abandoned on the table and Castiel was nowhere to be seen. “Dude, he's always been a little sensitive when you start in on him like that,” Sam commented. He went to the bags to start emptying them, pleased that the others had somewhat kept to the list.

“Hey, he started it with all that 'how can you stand how disgusting the human body is' and wiping his hand on Baby,” Dean said. “Can't man up...er, angel up...and admit he got a nose full of fizz from cheap root beer.”

“Just leave him alone,” Sam replied.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean waved halfheartedly in Sam's direction. “I'm gonna go clean angel snot off Baby's seats. Lemme know if the other baby needs something.”

Sam nearly lobbed a can of baked beans after his brother for being a jerk, but decided to be the mature one in this situation. After all, one of them had to be.

* * *

Insomnia was a bitch.

It didn't happen often anymore, not with a safe place to call home, but tonight Dean found himself wandering the halls unable to sleep. He tied his robe on securely—no matter what time of year the bunker was always chilly—and was on his way to the kitchen for something to snack on when the sound of coughing and retching from one of the rooms pulled him up short.

For a second he thought he'd taken a wrong turn and wound up in front of Sammy's door, and that the kid had come down with something. But no, this was the way to the kitchen...which meant this was Cas's room.

“Cas?” Dean tapped on the door and pushed it open. “You okay in here?”

Castiel was bent over the sink in the corner hacking out deep, wet-sounding coughs. As Dean approached the angel shuddered and gagged into the sink, though it sounded like he didn't have anything to bring up.

“Cas?” Dean gently rested a hand on Cas's back between his shoulder blades. “What's going on, man?”

“D-Dean?” Cas turned to him, his eyes glassy and his face pale except for a bright flush in his cheeks. “I'm not...”

Dean swore and grabbed Cas by the upper arms just as the angel's knees gave out. He half-carried, half-dragged Cas over to the bed to sit down on the edge. “You running a fever?” he asked, pressing one hand to Cas's head.

“Something's wrong.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean frowned. He wasn't sure what kind of body temp Cas was supposed to have, but this felt way too high. “All right, jackets off.”

Cas obediently tried to peel his coats away, but the movement cost him and he doubled over to cough into one sleeve wretchedly. Dean rubbed small circles on his back until the fit passed then, ignoring the stain on the trench coat's sleeve, hauled Cas up off the bed to strip his outer layers. Beneath the coats Cas's dress shirt was stiff and creased with dried sweat, and his pants weren't much better.

“Sit tight, okay?” Dean gently squeezed Cas on the shoulder. “I'm gonna get some stuff to make you comfortable.” The angel nodded in response, though his eyes had slid closed and he looked on the verge of passing out.

Dean nearly ran through the halls of the bunker. First to the kitchen for a bottle of water, then the infirmary for meds, then his own room for a T-shirt and shorts that would be a hell of a lot more comfortable than the remnants of Cas's suit.

“Dean?” Sam had poked his head out of his room, sporting some impressive bedhead, and was staring at the armload of stuff Dean was hauling back down the hall to Cas's room.

“Cas is sick,” Dean replied shortly.

“Dude, is this about the sneezing?” Sam sighed, gearing up for Bitchface #401: Some People Don't Understand Your Sense Of Humor, Dean, And By Some People I Mean Cas.

“No, Sam, it's about the fever and trying to puke up half his guts,” Dean snapped. “Something's wrong, man.”

He instantly felt guilty for snapping at his brother, but to Sam's credit the younger Winchester brushed Dean's comments aside. “What happened?” Sam asked, joining Dean on his way to Cas's room.

“I don't know,” Dean shook his head. “I found him trying to cough up his spleen and running a fever.”

He could tell Sam was running through the usual questions in his head. Recent injuries on a case, artifacts in the bunker that could affect an angel, maybe a spell or bargain Castiel hadn't told them about. There was just nothing there, unless Cas had somehow found cursed hummus at the grocery store.

“Cas?” Dean shouldered the door open. “Aw, man, I told you to stay put.”

Their friend had obviously been trying to get back to the sink, probably in another retching fit, but had collapsed on the floor halfway. Dean dropped what he was carrying on the end of the bed and knelt beside Cas to hook a hand under his arm. “Come on, let's get you up.”

Sam took the angel's other arm and together they hoisted him back onto his feet and helped him shuffle back to the bed. While Dean busied himself organizing the supplies he'd brought Sam pressed a hand to Castiel's forehead.

“He's really hot, Dean,” he said with a frown.

“Well, Sammy, I'm glad we could have this moment, but this might not be the time to discuss your preferences.”

“Dean!” scandalized, Sam hit his brother on the arm. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean chuckled. “Can't help it if you make it easy.” He'd found the little bottle of pills he was looking for and one of the bottles of water. “Hey, buddy, I've got some medicine for you, okay?”

Cas shook his head and tried to turn away from the offered pills. “I don't need human medicine,” he rasped.

“Just try it, Cas?” Sam pleaded. Even with his extraordinary bedhead making him look an extra foot taller, Sammy could still pull out the puppy-dog eyes. “It can't hurt, and maybe it would help.”

With a sigh, Cas seemed to slump even further into himself. “It won't stay down,” he muttered, more into his own lap than at either brother.

“It's a cough medicine,” Dean explained. He hesitated for a moment, then shoved some of the supplies he'd brought further back on the bed so he could sit next to Cas. “Sometimes humans throw up if they cough too much. This works pretty fast, it might help get ahead of the cough, then we can try something for that fever.”

Cas turned his head enough to look at the two amber-colored gel caps in Dean's hand. He swallowed, then another coughing fit had him doubling over his knees. Dean didn't even have time to put the pills down before Sam had a basin in Cas's lap and was rubbing one large hand across his shoulders.

It was just what Dean had seen earlier. Coughing (hard enough to bust a rib, as his dad used to say), followed by gagging, followed by a pitiful mouthful of bile that seemed painful to bring up.

But Cas took the pills after that, which was a victory in itself. He also took the cough drop Dean had brought along, after Sam had sung its hippie praises (yeah, okay, so the herbal ones were good), and hopefully that would keep him steady enough until the meds kicked in.

“All right, next step. Sammy, help him put these on,” Dean said, tossing the t-shirt and shorts to his brother.

“What? Me?”

“You're the one who said he was hot,” Dean replied with a wink. When Sam blustered he let out an exasperated sigh and knelt down to help Cas unbutton his shirt. “You're such a girl sometimes, Sam.”

“Coming from the guy undressing another dude,” Sam protested, but he set the clothes down next to Cas and took a washcloth over to the sink to wet it.

“These are fine, Dean,” Cas tried to bat his hands away, but he was tired and wheezy and too easy to overrule. “I may just soil yours.”

“We have a laundry room, man,” Dean said. “It's no big deal.”

“Mmm.”

“What was that?” Dean looked up, but Cas slipped sideways at that moment and nearly face-planted into the hunter's shoulder. “Cas?”

“I think he's out,” Sam said, crouching at Cas's other side to help tug the shirt off the angel's arms. “Dean?”

“What the hell.” There was a bright red rash across Cas's shoulders and up his neck that had been hidden by his shirt before. “What is this?”

“It's like his immune system is just going crazy,” Sam replied. He must have seen the questioning look on Dean's face because he continued. “Like a cytokine storm.”

Okay, maybe not. He was definitely doing it on purpose. “English, Sammy.”

“Too many white blood cells,” Sam said, his voice tight with exasperation. “Your immune system overreacts to an illness and starts attacking your body.”

“That's just not fair,” Dean complained, standing up to help Sam wrestle Cas's unresponsive body into the T-shirt he'd brought.

“Yeah, well, a lot of things aren't fair.” Sam's voice was quiet, and Dean couldn't even find it in his heart to tease his brother as they started to exchange Cas's pants for the softer shorts Dean had brought.

“So what do we do for a city...sitar...”

“Cytokine storm?”

“That. Yes.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and picked up Cas's phone from the nightstand. “I'll see what I can find. If he's not coughing, maybe you can wake him up enough to take something for the fever.”

They'd managed to shuffle Castiel into the bed, propped up on a couple of pillows in case he was having trouble breathing. The rash was more obvious now that Cas was in a T-shirt, bursts of bright red against the skin of his upper arms.

As though he felt Dean's gaze on him, Castiel slowly cracked his eyes open. “There he is,” Dean announced. He'd dug another bottle of pills out of the pile from the infirmary. “Looks like the cough stuff is working. Aspirin comes next.”

“Cas?” Sam was still looking at Cas's phone, an odd expression on his face. “What are these texts?”

Dean twisted to stare at Sam, but not enough to miss the heavy sigh from Cas, or the way he brought a hand up to cover his eyes. “You weren't supposed to find those.”

“Texts? What texts?” Dean would have lunged for the phone, but that would mean shoving Cas out of the way and, secrets or not, the angel was going through enough right now. “What's going on?”

“Heaven is shutting down?” Sam asked.

“Temporarily.” Cas let the hand slide away from his face but kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “The power drain to maintain so many individual Heavens has grown too great. They're moving some of the souls to share Heavens, but such a move requires a great deal of power.”

“So they cut you off,” Dean said. That just figured. Leave it to the dicks upstairs to find a way to screw over Cas because they couldn't handle their own screw-ups.

“Temporarily,” Cas repeated. He closed his eyes and gave a sigh. “You weren't supposed to find out.”

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean slapped a hand down on the bed, harder than he'd meant to, so that Cas jerked in surprised and looked up at him. “You've gotta tell us these things, man. No more secrets.”

“These say you should expect a mild discomfort,” Sam added, sitting on the bed next to Cas's knees with the phone still in his hand. “Cas, this is a lot worse.”

Dean had to look away. The thought that Cas might have thought it was okay to spend the night curled up on the floor, coughing his lungs up as his body tried to kill itself, was something he didn't want to think about. “Sammy. Shiitake-whatever storm.”

“Cytokine.”

“Whatever. What do we do?”

“Treat the symptoms,” Sam replied. “Fever, rash, nausea, sore muscles...if we can keep ahead on those he'll be fine.”

“I don't need-”

“No,” Dean began, but Sam cut him off.

“I know you'll get better on your own once heaven is done,” the younger Winchester said, his voice far more gentle than Dean could have managed right now, “but I don't think it would hurt to take something. Maybe you could at least be comfortable, in case this takes longer than Naomi predicted.”

Cas almost seemed to slump even further, but didn't protest anymore.

“I'll get the benadryl,” Sam said, patting Cas on the knee. “If it knocks you out as much as the cough stuff you'll probably sleep through the rest of this.”

Dean had busied himself trying to calculate how much aspirin to give a semi-powered angel of the lord as Sam left the room, but a hand on his wrist stopped him for a moment. “Cas?”

“I'm sorry, Dean. I was trying not to worry you. This was supposed to be minor.”

With a sigh, Dean just shook out about twice what he took for a hangover. “We're more worried when you hide stuff, you know,” he replied, dropping the pile of pills into one of Cas's hands and reaching for the water bottle.

“I know.”

“So just...no more secrets, Cas. Really.”

Dean pulled a face as Cas swallowed the handful of aspirin dry, then followed it up with a swig from the water bottle. “I'll try, Dean.”

Well, that was probably the best he was gonna get tonight. “We'll talk this out when you're back on your feet,” he promised, patting Cas on the knee. “No more secrets.”

Cas had closed his eyes again and just nodded. Dean could hear Sam's moose feet clopping back down the hall from the infirmary, so he busied himself with clearing away the rest of the stuff off the bed to make sure Cas had plenty of room to sleep this crap off.

They couldn't keep doing this. No more secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cytokine storm is a real thing. It's kind of scary to read about, so don't go looking it up right before bed or if you're feeling sick.
> 
> Stay safe out there! If you have to go to the store, please be kind to the workers. Most of us in retail are told we're essential when they really mean we're disposable, and home office pats themselves on the back for being so courageous for working from home while reopening stores that can't even get basic cleaning supplies.
> 
> Sorry, that was bitter. Just be kind to each other, and only take what you need.


	9. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Season One fic) Sam ends up in a bad situation when he gets separated from Dean at a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying, guys! My health took a turn for the worse back in May, but I'm hopefully getting back on my feet. I want to get back to a regular posting schedule, but I honestly can't make promises right now.

The bar was crowded, noisy. The thump of bass from the DJ's turntable a thunderous undercurrent to the bodies pressed together on the dance floor. Colored spotlights swirled around in dizzying patterns, trying to add to the nightclub atmosphere, though the halogen lights over the pool tables somewhat ruined that effect.

It had been a difficult case. They'd seen the pattern too late... _he'd_ seen the pattern too late...and the ghost of Marie Whittaker had taken one more child to the grave before they could burn her remains. Sam stared down at the shot of whiskey on the counter, contemplating the idea of actually getting _drunk_ enough to forget. Dean had tried to pull him into a game of pool—just a regular game, not even a hustle, which showed this case was weighing on his brother, too—but that wouldn't be distraction enough. Not tonight.

He downed the shot, gestured for another.

“You okay, sweetie?” a light, feminine voice interrupted Sam's dark thoughts. He hadn't noticed the young woman sidle up to the bar, no doubt part of the crowd of college kids tangling out on the dance floor. “I'm Melody,” she added, once she'd caught his attention.

He glanced at her. She was pretty, with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes. A dark blue halter top accentuated her shapely figure, but Sam pulled his eyes away before he could be accused of staring. Girls like this usually walked up to Dean first, not him.

“Sam,” he offered, holding his hand out. “Just a...a bad day at the office,” he added lamely.

“That's too bad,” Melody pouted as she took his hand. “Let me cheer you up?”

What the hell. Why not. He tossed the second shot of whiskey back and let Melody lead him out to the dance floor. The music was different enough to pull his mind away from the dark thoughts of the day's work as the synth rolled over him, the beat almost a physical presence in his bones. On the floor the air was heady with the sweat and heat of the dancers around him, and he lost sight of Melody more than once in the press of bodies.

She reappeared, laughing, with a hand on his wrist to tug him back to the bar. Another girl was there this time, who she introduced as a friend, and they giggled between themselves as the bartender laid out a row of shots for each of them.

Sam downed the shots without a second thought and let the girls drag him back to the floor. It wasn't sensual as much as just fun—they were trying to teach him a dance their sorority had made for the song the DJ was playing, and he seemed to be all left feet and nearly knocked Melody over when he bumped into her. They went back to the bar, then to the floor, again and again and each time the alcohol and the music swirled in his bones and blood while the lights spun overhead and the bad day was getting further and further behind him.

He'd lost count of the time, and the number of shots, when the girls dragged him back up to the bar only to come face-to-face with Dean. Sam scowled, his good mood evaporating in an instant. Of course Dean would butt in on his fun. He just couldn't stand that his little brother was the one getting all the attention for once.

“Sammy,” Dean glanced from Sam to Melody, who'd wrapped herself around Sam's arm. “We gotta get going, man.”

“Sam doesn't have to go anywhere with you,” Melody retorted. Her friend was already leaning over the bar to order more shots, the back of her shirt riding up to reveal a tattoo of a dolphin jumping over a trio of Greek letters. Their sorority emblem, she'd explained.

“Fun's over,” Dean replied. He took Sam's other arm and tried to pull him away. “I'm sure he's had a wonderful time, but we've gotta get an early start in the morning.”

“No way!” Melody was pulling on her side. “Sam wants to stay with us, don't you, Sam?”

He was having trouble forming a coherent sentence, but stood his ground and pulled away from Dean. “I'm staying,” he finally slurred. Dean's expression darkened, and Sam yanked his arm free from Melody enough to shove his brother back a few steps. “Get outta here.”

Dean twisted both hands in Sam's collar and yanked him close, and Sam braced himself for his brother's anger. “Dude, they're not into you,” Dean murmured, just loud enough that Sam could hear but the girls couldn't. “They're sorority pledges and it's rush week, I heard some of the guys talking about it. They're just trying to make you look like an ass.”

Anger surged through Sam's intoxicated brain and he shoved his brother away. “You'd know all about looking like an ass, Dean,” he snarled. He took a step forward and shoved him again. “Can't stand that I'm having a good time.” Sam spread his arms in challenge, but Dean just glowered at him.

“We're leaving, Sammy.”

“It's _Sam_ ,” he nearly shouted, taking a swing at his brother. Dean ducked away and caught him by the wrist and shoulder to guide his momentum toward the bar. The edge of the wooden counter nearly knocked the breath out of Sam as he was pressed down, his arm twisted away in an armlock.

“Let him go!” Melody was practically jumping on Dean now, beating at his shoulder with her fists. The older Winchester looked frustrated as he tried to fend off the sorority girl without releasing his brother. Melody's friend had disappeared when Dean showed up, but reappeared now with a couple of guys in letterman jackets.

One of the new guys grabbed Dean by the back of his jacket and peeled him away from Sam, all but throwing him into one of the unused pool tables. The music cut out with the scratch of a needle on vinyl and Sam found himself surrounded by Melody's friends as Dean slowly picked himself up off the pool table.

“Hey!” the bartender was leaning over the counter, gesturing at Sam and the others. “Knock it off or beat it!”

“He started it,” Melody protested, jabbing a finger in Dean's direction. “He was picking a fight, wasn't he, Sam?”

Sam's eyes met his brother's and he hesitated for a moment. He could see it all in there...the pain and anger at losing that kid today, the worry over Dad's continued absence, and under it all the constant pressure of the job, of the next hunt.

He must have hesitated for too long, as one of the guys standing next to Melody gave an audible snort and jerked his head toward the door. “Let's get out of here, Mel,” he said.

Melody was nodding in agreement, both of her arms wrapped around Sam's to pull him along with the group. Dean tried to wade in, but two of the big guys in letterman jackets blocked him. Sam knew his brother could take them out, but also knew that a bar fight was one of the last things Dean wanted right now. He ducked his head as they passed Dean, trying to avoid any further eye contact with his brother.

“That guy was such a loser,” Melody complained as she pushed Sam into the backseat of rough-looking sedan in the bar's parking lot. “What was his problem anyway?”

“He's my brother,” Sam admitted. He was tucked in the back between Melody and her friend—which was an odd choice to him, as he was the tallest one in the car now.

Melody made a face as the car pulled out onto the road. “Well, he's back there now. Where we headed, Rick?”

Rick, in the driver's seat, peered back at them through the rear-view mirror. “How about that little place off route 41?”

The girls burst into a fit of giggles and settled back in the seat. Melody rested her head on Sam's shoulder while her friend pulled out a phone to scroll through her text messages. Sam let his head rest back, closing his eyes against the flash of streetlights as the car skimmed its way down the street. He was just now realizing it was raining—perfect end to a really shitty night.

He wanted to call Dean, to let his brother know where they were going, but squeezed in between the girls he couldn't get to his phone. There'd be time at their next stop, he figured.

There was movement at his side, and he peeked over to see that Melody had pulled her own phone out. She glanced at the screen and burst out into another round of giggles, leaning forward to peer at her friend across Sam's body. There was a tapping of keys from Melody's phone, then her friend was laughing, leaning against the window to hide her face.

They carried on like that for several minutes, shooting texts to each other from a few feet away and laughing at each response. It had seemed like a cute little habit at first—Sam had had a lot of friends back at Stanford who were fascinated with texting—but as the minutes ticked away with no end in sight the whole situation was starting to get on his nerves. The buzz from the events at the bar had long since begun to fade, and he was starting to regret drinking so much and heading out with strangers the way he had.

Yeah, Sam was definitely calling his brother as soon as they got...wherever they were going. Even if Dean was wrong about Melody and her friends—they seemed nice enough, just college kids out for a party—he shouldn't have brushed his brother off like that.

“This is perfect!” Melody suddenly squealed. “Stop here, Rick!”

Sam had to brace himself against the front seat as Rick slammed on the brakes. He blinked around owlishly, staring at the blank stretch of road where they'd stopped. It was a rural part of the state route, with streetlights few and far between.

“Everybody out!” Melody announced. She threw her door opened and piled out, tugging at Sam's arm to pull him after. With Melody pulling and her friend pushing, Sam struggled out of the cramped backseat to stand by the side of the road.

“What's going on?” he asked. He suddenly realized he had no idea where they'd gone, or even how far they were from the town. They were stopped on a random stretch of road, the only light coming from the car's headlights, the drainage ditch beside the road already swirling with a few inches of rainwater.

“It's your stop,” Melody said cheerfully. “Say cheese!”

The flash of a camera blinded him for a second. Sam shook his head and brought one hand up to shield his eyes. “The hell...”

“Bye-bye, Sam!” Melody and her friend shouted in chorus. Next thing he knew the girls had shoved him in the chest, hard enough that he stumbled back and his feet shot out from under him and he tumbled down the short slope into the drainage ditch.

Sam landed on his back in the ditch, the water deep enough to instantly soak his hair and back. He spluttered for breath, rolling to his feet to try to climb out of the ditch but another camera flash blinded him. He heard further peals of laughter from the girls, then the sound of the sedan's door slamming shut and the tires screeching as Melody and her friends took off into the night.

He stared down the road at the disappearing tail lights. They'd just left him here. Shoved him in a drainage ditch and abandoned him at the side of the road. With a sigh, Sam pulled his phone out to call his brother. He'd have to life with the told-you-so's, but that would be better that walking all the way back to town in the rain.

Of course, his phone had been in his back pocket. Which had been one of the parts of him that had been instantly submerged when the girls had shoved him into the ditch. Sam stared at it forlornly, silently begging the screen to come back to life, but it remained silent.

So he was walking. He shoved the now-useless phone back into his pocket and stared down the road for a long minute. The happy buzz of the alcohol was gone, leaving the dark pull of depression behind. He inevitably felt like shit when he drank too much, and tonight was no different.

There was a faint glow on the horizon from the town they'd left, and Sam pointed himself in that direction to start walking. He didn't think they'd taken too many turns getting out of town, so hopefully it was just a straight shot. Or at least a straight shot to a pay phone, or even a compassionate local, so he could call his brother. And, man...that was the worst. Not only had Dean been right about Melody and her friends, but Sam had found out at his own expense. After being dragged out into the middle of nowhere and dumped in a drainage ditch.

No, those girls hadn't made Sam look like an ass. He'd done a good enough job of that himself.

The night was dark, especially without streetlights, and traffic along this road was rare at this time of night. He'd been walking for almost an hour and had only seen one car so far—he'd tried to flag it down but it had sped past him, sloshing muddy water from a puddle up his legs to his knees. The shoulder was uneven, and Sam had already slipped back down the incline to the ditch a few times. He was muddy up to his armpit on his right side, and his left arm was scraped up from trying to catch himself on a piece of broken asphalt.

He was about ready to give up, about ready to just lie in the ditch until morning or death or whatever came after him...when the familiar rumble of an engine reached his ears. Sam jerked his head up, staring down the highway as another pair of headlights rose into view past a dip in the road.

The Impala slowed to a stop next to Sam, and he watched numbly as his brother leaned across the seat to open the passenger-side door. Dean stared at him for a few seconds, taking in the wet and muddy clothing with an air of disgusted resignation.

“Well?” Dean demanded after a moment.

Ducking his head, Sam slid into the car almost guiltily. He bunched himself up as best as he could to keep the mud from spreading and leaned back against the seat as Dean pulled back onto the road.

“You were right,” Sam finally offered after a few more minutes of silence.

He felt Dean glance over at him, then his brother's attention was back on the road. “Yeah, well, had to happen some time.”

“How did you find me?”

“Talked to the locals. Part of their pledge week scavenger hunt, or whatever. Lure some loser out of a bar and drop him in a drainage ditch.”

Sam shrank a little further into his seat. “Sorry.”

“You're cleaning her when we get to Decatur,” his brother shot back.

“Decatur?” Sam looked over at Dean, noticing for the first time the bloodied knuckles on his brother's hands and the bruises and scrapes on his face. Apparently “the locals” hadn't wanted to give up the details of the girls' prank easily.

“Dad's journal,” Dean nodded to the book on the seat between them. “Every year about this time they have a sudden bout of good luck. He's been tracking if for years, thinks there might be some kind of land spirit involved.”

Sam didn't dare to pick up the journal with the mud on his arms, so he contented himself with looking at the well-worn leather cover. “You think he'll be there?”

Dean's jaw tightened, and Sam immediately looked away. This wasn't the time to get into it. They could fight over looking for Dad instead of picking up cases here and there some other time, when he wasn't soaked with water and mud and headed for the biggest hangover since his twenty-first birthday.

“Decatur sounds good,” he finally said.

Something in Dean's posture relaxed, and when his other brother looked over at him again there was a little more of the old, teasing affection back in his eyes. “Get some sleep, man, you look like shit.”

Sam closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. At least Dean wasn't making stupid jokes or rubbing his mistakes in his face.

“Can't believe you let those girls _ditch_ you, Sammy.”

“Dean!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there! What would Internet Aunt Freckles do if anything happened to you?


	10. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack goes too far in an attempt to restore Castiel's grace, leaving Sam and Dean to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter splits off after episode 14.15, just after Cas realized how much of Jack's soul had been destroyed. 
> 
> In my defense, Reese's Cups power my whump engines, and I just bought Reese's Cup ice cream.

Castiel pulled another heavy volume off the library shelf, scanned the index at the back of the book, and added it to the ever-growing pile on the library table. He was alone, for the moment, the silence of the bunker broken only by the distant sounds of the old science fiction movie playing in Dean's “Man Cave”.

It was Dean's idea. Sam was far too wound up recently, and Dean was determined to force him to relax with a night of old favorite movies. Castiel had been invited—cajoled to join them, in fact—but he had far more urgent business to attend to.

Jack's soul.

He hadn't wanted to concern the Winchesters with Jack's behavior after they had all been through so much, so this was an ideal night to begin his own research. After all, there probably wasn't much two humans could do to help restore a celestial soul, so the burden fell to him.

And there was that fear...that undercurrent of fear that if Sam and Dean realized how dangerous Jack had become they would force him to leave. As weak and selfish as it was, Castiel wanted to hold on to this little family for as long as possible.

He turned to add another volume to the table and nearly dropped it in shock when he saw Jack standing behind him, studying the pile of books with a strange expression on his face.

“Jack,” Castiel sighed, placing the latest book carefully on top of the pile. “I didn't hear you come in.” Which was a little disconcerting. He was so used to being able to detect any of his charges when they were nearby, Jack's sudden ability to move through the bunker undetected even to an angel was alarming.

“Is this about my soul?” Jack asked as he picked up an old journal and flipped through it casually. There was something chilling about his face. Void of emotions, as Sam's had been when he'd been soulless, but with an almost ancient cunning behind his expression.

“Yes,” Castiel admitted as he turned back to scan the shelves. “If there is any chance a portion of your soul remains intact we should be able to find a way to restore it.”

When he turned around again to place another book on the table he was startled to find Jack even closer, close enough that if Castiel had taken a step backward as he'd turned he would have run into the boy. Jack's steady gaze was focused on the angel's face, making him feel like a specimen in a glass case.

“I don't need my soul,” Jack finally said.

Castiel let out a sigh and moved around the boy to put the book on the table. “You say that now, Jack, but there are consequences to losing a soul.”

“Everything is so much clearer now.”

“It only seems that way,” Castiel responded. “Loss of empathy and emotion...” his voice caught in his throat and he took an involuntary step back, the spines of the books behind him pressing into his back. Jack had moved around in front of him again, angel blade in hand. “Jack?”

“I know how to fix things,” Jack replied serenely. “And I'm starting with your grace.” With a flick of his wrist, too fast for Castiel to defend himself, he carved a glowing line across the angel's throat.

Castiel clamped one hand over the wound, staggering, choking on the grace welling up between his fingers.

“I could say I'm sorry, if it helps,” Jack offered. He flicked his hand out to the side and Castiel's arms were pinned to the bookcase behind him, his wounded throat exposed to the nephilim's critical eye. “I can fix this, you'll see,” he added. He cupped one hand under Castiel's chin and coaxed the grace out into his palm.

“What the hell?!”

There, behind Jack's shoulder, Dean was barreling into the room. Castiel didn't know when his friend had arrived or how much of the conversation he'd caught, but there was no time to feel relief as Jack twisted to look at Dean. With the barest twitch of his head he sent the older hunter careening away, flipping over one of the library tables to land in a heap on the floor.

Castiel tried to say Jack's name, but the wound in his throat pulsed with agony and blood welled up in his mouth instead. Jack looked up at him, his face unreadable, hand still cradling the growing coil of grace.

“I'll need all of it,” Jack remarked. He held up his free hand and tightened his fingers into a fist. Instantly Castiel felt his body squeezed into itself under an immense pressure, as though Jack sought to physically wring out the last of his grace.

The air was violently forced out of his lungs in a spray of blood that speckled Jack's implacable face. The terrible pressure increased until Castiel could feel the bruising of his internal organs and the creaking of his bones.

This was it. Jack was going to _squeeze_ every speck of grace out of Castiel's body and grind his body to paste as he did. Already dark spots were obscuring Castiel's vision as his lungs could not draw in the oxygen to keep his vessel functioning. His heart gave a painful stutter as one of his ribs cracked under the awful pressure and he knew what would happen next—the rest of his ribs would break inward, one after the other, piercing his organs. He would die, graceless and human.

Would the Empty even take him after a death like this?

* * *

Dean struggled to his feet, finally just breaking the library chair that had somehow gotten wrapped around him when Jack tossed him like a sack of spuds. He'd been on his way to the library to coax Cas out to join their movie marathon—it was the Star Trek one with the whales—but he'd found Cas pinned to the shelves as Jack cut his grace out.

Jack was standing nearly motionless in front of Cas, a bright ball of grace hovering in his left hand while his right hand was clenched in a fist, fingers working as though he was squeezing a stress ball. Against the shelves, Cas's face was twisted in agony, his skin mottled red and white and his lips already turning blue.

It was surreal. Dean gave another cry and vaulted over the table, reaching for the gun he usually kept in his waistband only to remember he wasn't carrying it today. With no other option he scooped up another chair and swung it at Jack, though the wood merely shattered on impact and the nephilim was unmoved.

“Dean.” Jack's voice was eerily calm, as though he wasn't literally squeezing the life out of his father. “I'm almost done.”

“The hell you are!” Dean swung a haymaker at Jack's face, but his body was suddenly frozen to the spot with his arm still halfway through the blow.

“None of you understand that I'm doing something good,” Jack said. There was an edge to his voice now, one that brought up uncomfortable echoes of when Sam had lost his soul. “I'm going to fix Castiel's grace, but I have to take it all out of him to do that.”

Dean's throat worked, and he felt Jack's grip on him loosen just enough to let him speak. “Look at him. Jack, you're killing him.”

Jack snorted and turned back around. “He'll be fine when I get his grace back to normal. I just have to get...the last...out. There we go.” One final, sluggish coil of blue-white grace trickled out of the wound in Cas's throat to settle in the palm of Jack's hand. Jack held the grace up to his eye to study it critically, a frown creasing his features.

“Let him go,” Dean said again, fighting to keep his voice calm. Cas's eyes were rolling back in his head, dark bruises erupting on his face as blood vessels burst under the pressure.

With a start, Jack looked up at the angel...at the _human_ he'd pinned to the library shelves. He opened his right hand, letting his fingers relax out of the fist, and Cas crumpled to the library floor. Jack knelt, and there was a soft glow from his hand that had Dean hoping for a moment that the kid was healing Cas's injuries, but when he stepped away only the cut across Cas's throat had been healed.

Jack glanced up at Dean, eyes almost fever-bright. “Will you tell him I'll be back?” he asked.

Dean didn't have a chance to reply before Jack lifted his right hand again and snapped, a vertical tear of golden light opening in between them. Dean caught the faintest hint of a heady floral aroma and the distant tinkle of voices before Jack stepped through the tear and was gone.

The tear closed with a loud snap and Dean stumbled forward as Jack's hold on his body released. He all but collapsed next to Cas and struggled to roll his friend onto his back, hampered by a trench coat that now seemed three sizes too big.

“Cas?” Dean fumbled for Cas's pulse at his neck. “Nononono, don't do this man, come on.” He'd watched Cas die too damn many times to watch it again. “C'mon, Cas, please...” There was a faint flutter of a pulse, but that was all. Cas wasn't breathing.

Instantly, the CPR training Dad had drilled into both their heads took over. Airway, breathing, compression...he tilted Cas's chin up to clear his airway and blew two breaths into his friend's lungs, relieved to see Cas's chest expanding with each breath. Next was compressions, and he sent a silent note of condolence to yet another suit ruined as he tore Cas's shirt open to start compressions.

Dean nearly recoiled in shock. If he'd thought Cas's face looked bad—and it did, it definitely did—his chest and stomach were even worse. Veins stood out in angry lines in the few places the skin wasn't bruised up in patches of purple and red. There were swollen lumps from broken ribs, hot to the touch when his fingers brushed over them. He couldn't imagine doing compressions on a chest that battered, but as the seconds ticked by and Cas didn't respond Dean realized he didn't have a choice.

This was going to _hurt_ when Cas woke up. Dean lined up his hands and rocked up to his knees, forcing himself to focus just on the next step and not the horrific damage he was seeing on his friend's body. Thirty compressions, then two more rescue breaths.

Cas was still unresponsive. Dean wiped his face ineffectively on his shoulder and switched back to compressions again, counting them out under his breath to the tune of “Staying Alive” like his dad had taught him. Thirty more, then back down for two breaths.

“Oh my god...”

He ignored Sam's voice and continued compressions, gasping out the number as he reached thirty.

“I've got it, Dean, I'm right here,” Sam was on his knees beside him, taking over the mouth-to-mouth. Dean sat back on his heels, rubbing his sleeve over his face, watching Cas's chest rise and fall with the breaths Sam was forcing into his lungs. Then it was forward again, compressions again, Sam's face screwed up in concentration with his fingers on the faint pulse in Cas's neck. Over and over and _over_.

It could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, all Dean knew was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard was the ragged gasp for breath as Cas's eyes fluttered open. He helped Sam roll Cas onto his side and rested one hand on his friend's back, adrenaline flooding out of his body to leave exhaustion in its wake. Dean leaned down enough to rest his forehead against Cas's arm, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on the other man's back (cautious, light touches—no doubt Cas was just as bruised on his back as everywhere else).

“What's going on?” Sam finally asked. He'd scooted around so that Cas's head was resting on his knee, the former angel still weak and shaky.

“I came in here to get Cas and Jack was just...” Dean's voice trailed off and he shook his head, sitting back on his heels. His face was wet and he was a little mortified to realize he'd been crying, but Sam was wiping at his own eyes so what did it really matter.

“ _Jack_ did this?” Sam's voice was appalled, and when Dean looked up he saw his brother's face had gone pale.

“He took Cas's grace...it was like he was squeezing it out. And he said he was coming back, like he was gonna fix it or something.”

Cas tried to add to that, but his voice came out in a rasp and he turned his face to cough into Sam's knee. Sam shared a concerned look with his brother and gently rested one hand on the back of Cas's neck. “Are you human now?”

The weak little nod nearly broke Dean's heart.

“Dean...we should get him to the hospital.”

“What? No way,” Dean shook his head automatically. This wasn't something they could explain away. There would be too many questions. Besides, it wasn't safe—Cas was human now, he was vulnerable to anything and anyone.

“He could have internal damage,” Sam insisted. “Come on, Dean. Cas needs a doctor.”

Dean swallowed down his reply, staring at the dark bruises wrapping around Cas's side. Sam was right...they didn't have a choice. Their friend needed a doctor...or a miracle.

* * *

Mom and Jody met them at the hospital. Mom had been working a case up near Sioux City, with Jody's help, and the sheriff had insisted on coming along when she heard what had happened. Dean was thankful for her presence, as Mom had been a wreck when she'd come in. The sight of what had been done to Cas...the news that _Jack_ was the one who had done it...it was just so much to try to process.

“Claire's coming,” Jody whispered, pulling away from the hug she'd wrapped Dean in as soon as she entered the room. “She's a couple days out but she's on her way. Told us where to find her dad's medical records.”

Dean barely nodded in thanks. Jody squeezed his hand and moved over to explain something to Sam, their voices barely a murmur over the hiss of the machines. Mary was sitting on the edge of Cas's hospital bed, holding one of his hands with both of hers, telling him a story about a hunt she once took on with her father that Dean was pretty sure was just the plot of an old episode of Doctor Who.

His phone buzzed and he tugged it out to check the caller ID, then stepped out of the room to take the call. He hadn't told the others, but he'd made another call while they were on the way to the hospital. He wasn't sure she would even answer, so he didn't want to get their hopes up.

“Anael,” Dean greeted, leaning back against the wall next to the hospital room.

“ _Winchester_ ,” the angel returned. The disgust in her voice was undisguised. “ _What do you want and what makes you think I'll help you?_ ”

“It's...it's Cas,” Dean swallowed. Even now he could barely bring himself to say it.

“ _What did you do?_ ” Anael demanded.

“What?”

“ _You heard me. Every time something happens to Castiel it comes back to you, or that overgrown brother of yours. So. What did you do?_ ”

Dean sighed. He could argue, protest his innocence, but they'd all known the kid was dangerous. He should have done more, talked to Jack more, gotten through to the kid in a permanent way. “It's Jack,” he finally said.

“ _What, the kid die or something? Because I don't do resurrections._ ”

“No, he...he cut out Cas's grace. Cas is human.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Dean might have thought they'd been disconnected if not for the faint sound of footsteps. “ _And what do you expect me to do about it?_ ” Anael asked coldly.

“Cas's hurt. He's hurt bad, and...” Dean swallowed and leaned back, resting the phone against his chest for a moment. It was still hard to say even now. The doctor's words still echoed in his ears. Internal bleeding. Organ failure. Permanent damage.

“ _Winchester!”_

Belatedly he realized Anael had been yelling his name through the phone. He brought it back up to his ear and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I just...”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“Smith County Memorial Hospital,” Dean glanced up at the number above the door. “Room 218.”

“ _I'll be there in three hours. You'd better not be lying, Winchester._ ”

Dean tried to say something, swallowed back the emotion welling in his throat, and tried again. “Thanks.”

The line was already dead. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned to the room. Jody had taken Mary's place at Cas's bedside and was sharing some recent pictures of Claire from her phone. He wasn't sure how much Cas was aware of through the fog of pain killers and other meds the docs were pumping into him, but it was a kind gesture anyway. Mary was sitting with Sam now, furiously wiping tears from her eyes as she listened to her younger son explain the situation.

Dean stepped up to the side of the bed opposite Jody and looked down at Cas, stomach still clenching every time he saw his best friend reduced to little more than bruised flesh and broken bone. He never would have believed it was Jack if he hadn't seen it himself, even knowing that the kid was missing a soul.

“Dean?” Sam's voice at his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts.

“I'm good,” Dean waved his brother's concern off and pulled another chair up to Cas's bedside. “I, uh, I made a call.”

Sam frowned and looked over to where Mom was looking at something on her phone. “What did you do?” he whispered.

“Not like that,” Dean waved one hand. “Anael. She'll be here in a couple of hours.”

His brother settled down on the edge of the hospital bed and folded his arms. “You think she'll help?”

“She sounded like it,” Dean shrugged. “We don't have much of a choice, Sammy.”

“Who's Anael?” Jody whispered, leaning over Cas to join the conversation.

“An angel,” Sam replied. “She's been hiding out on earth as a faith healer. Dean, you know she's gonna want something in return.”

“Yeah, and we're gonna give it to her.”

“Do you even know what it is?”

“It doesn't matter,” Dean shook his head. At his brother's pained expression he gestured at the still figure lying in the hospital bed. “It's _Cas_ , Sammy. We'd do the same for each other.”

“That's what worries me,” Sam replied. “Dean, what if she-”

“We'll figure it out,” Dean cut his brother off. “He'd do the same for us. Hell, he has done the same for us.” When Sam still looked doubtful, Dean leaned in closer. “We owe him this. After all the crap we've been through...we owe him the best shot we've got.”

* * *

Jody had finally lured Mom away with the promise of hot coffee and a fresh T-shirt from the hospital gift shop. Dean had taken up camp beside Cas's hospital bed, legs stretched out and arms folded, his face set as though he could heal Cas through willpower. Sam, for lack of anything more productive to do, was combing through the lore for some hint of what Jack might have been planning with Cas's grace.

The closest answer he could find was an odd bit from an unpublished _Wizard of Oz_ book that claimed the witch of the South had a device that could restore celestial power. In the book it was the stars themselves falling out of the sky over Oz, but the descriptions were so close to when the angels had fallen from heaven that Sam couldn't help but think they were similar events. Cas had said there was no power on earth that could help the angels regain their wings...but what if there was something in the faerie realms?

A tap at the door pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked up to see Anael leaning into the room. He waved her in, and a glance at Dean told him that the older Winchester had registered the angel's presence.

Anael stepped forward, moving with the unstudied grace of a dancer, and neatly pushed past Dean to stop at Castiel's bedside. She looked down at him, and Sam thought he saw a slight tremor run through her shoulders.

“Oh, Cas,” Anael whispered. She leaned down, resting one hand against his bruised cheek, though the meds in his IV had pulled him under again. “You said I wouldn't have to be alone, you big idiot.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Well?”

“There's just the matter of my fee,” Anael replied. She straightened up, smoothing her blouse down as she turned to face the Winchesters. Her mouth was twisted up in a smirk, though the emotion didn't quite reach her eyes.

“What are we talking about?” Sam asked.

“Whatever it is we'll pay it,” Dean interjected. Sam glared at him, and Dean glared back, chin tilted up, defiant.

“Settle down, boys,” Anael held her hands up. “There's just one thing.”

“Name it,” Dean said. He held Sam's gaze, daring his brother to contradict him.

“Michael.”

Sam jerked back to stare at her, stunned.

“Come again?” Dean demanded.

“The archangel,” Anael explained. She folded her arms and stared from one brother to the other. “I want you to bust him out.”

Dean was already shaking his head. “Look, sister...”

“Don't 'sister' me,” Anael retorted. “Michael's stuck in the cage because of you. I want you to let him out.”

“He's insane,” Sam replied. “Look, I don't know what you want from him, but Michael's not even himself anymore.”

“And who told you that?” the angel snorted. “Lucifer? The father of lies? We only have his word to go on, and I'm pretty sure Michael wouldn't have snapped so easily.”

Sam glanced at his brother again, but Dean was staring down at Anael with a focused expression. “Even if we could,” Sam finally said. “What do you want with Michael?”

Anael looked away. “Heaven's a mess,” she explained. “Angels are dying out. We need something big and powerful to save our species, and if your little nephilim is on the fritz then Michael's our last hope.”

“We can't even get to the cage,” Sam argued.

“Jack could.” Dean nodded to himself. “He said he's coming back, right?” he continued when he caught Sam staring at him. “We just have to convince him to pop Michael out. That all you want?”

“But why?” Sam countered. “Why do you want Michael released? Why are you so concerned about heaven?”

“Hey, Cas isn't the only one low on power,” Anael snapped. “We're all feeling it. Demons used to fear us, we'd make their eyes bleed just by walking into the room. Now? Now they laugh at me. We're weak and dying and Michael can fix it, so you'd better believe I want him back. So are you gonna do it or not?”

“We'll do it,” Dean said.

“Dean...”

“Save it,” he held his hand up at Sam's protest. “She's right. We only have dickface's word that Michael's coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs anyway, right?”

Sam shook his head, but he had to agree with his brother. If they could convince Jack to open the cage, freeing Michael might be their best shot at restoring the young man's soul anyway. “Fine.”

“Good.” Anael rubbed her hands together. “Give me a second.”

She leaned back over Cas, this time placing her fingers on his forehead. Her hand began to glow, and Sam saw Cas's body arch off the bed as he drew in a sudden gasp. The light grew until it was almost blinding and Sam had to look away, shielding his eyes from the glow. Then it faded, and he turned back in time to see Anael stumble away from the hospital bed to be caught by Dean, who held her up until she was steady on her feet again.

“Yeah, you're welcome,” Anael muttered as Sam and Dean practically pushed her aside to check on Cas.

Sam's heart sunk. Cas lay still in the bed, quiet and unconscious, his face still dark with bruises. Unchanged.

“What the hell!” Dean spun around and jabbed a finger toward Anael. “What was that?”

“I told you I was low on power,” Anael replied. She had pulled a lacy handkerchief out of one of her pockets and was dabbing at a thin stream of blood trickling out of her nose. “I healed the worst of the damage, all the internal stuff and the worst of the bones. I didn't have enough for everything so I focused on saving his life. Is that okay?”

At the challenge in her voice Dean seemed to wilt. He turned back to Cas, his face suddenly seeming drawn and aged. “That's it?”

Sam had been looking at the monitors. He wasn't a doctor, but he'd seen enough to realize Cas's vital signs were stabilizing. His pulse was stronger, his blood oxygen was increasing, blood pressure was improving. “Dean,” he tapped his brother on the arm and nodded to the monitors. “She's right.”

Dean sagged even further and turned around again, but Anael had already left. “Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed out and collapsed into the chair next to the bed. He leaned forward, elbows on the arms of the chair, and rested his head in his hands.

Movement in the bed caught Sam's eye, and he smiled when he saw Cas's eyes flutter open, clear and focused for the first time since that awful moment Sam had come into the library to see his brother performing CPR on their best friend's crumpled body. “Hey, Cas,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He took the angel's—the _human's—_ limp fingers in his hand. “It's gonna be okay, man. We're right here.”

Dean's hand covered his, though his older brother hadn't moved from the chair. “Just get better, buddy, okay?” he added. “We've got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an old file in my laptop simply titled "Bad Jack" that deals with a fic idea along these lines, but it was abandoned when I just couldn't get it to line up the way I wanted. So I was glad to be able to work it in here, even if people hate me for it (lol). Jack was going to take Cas's grace to the faerie realms to power it up with fey magic, but I hadn't decided if that would work or not. Like I said, abandoned file.
> 
> And yes, the CPR was necessary, even if this is gen. Yes, including ripping the shirt open, they teach you to do that. Trust me, *nobody* gets turned on during CPR. Despite the mouth-to-mouth contact it's one of the least sexy things in the world.
> 
> Stay safe out there! Keep your mask on, unless you're called to perform CPR to save the life of a recently-fallen angel!


	11. Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story of fathers and sons. When Jack falls through the ice Dean is there to take care of him...just like his own father had many years before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! A little Jack TLC to make up for the last chapter...and a little Fatherly!John to make up for chapter four.

* _Then_ *

“The door! Sammy, get the door!” John usually tried not to raise his voice at his younger son—hell, the kid was barely old enough to go on hunts with them, had to use a .22 because the 9mm knocked him on his ass—but with his older son barely conscious and shivering in his arms there was no time to be gentle.

Sam barely got the key in the old-fashioned lock before John was shouldering the door open, just about knocking the boy over in his hurry to get into the motel room. At twelve Dean hadn't quite hit his growth spurt yet, and it was all too easy for John to carry his son's small frame to one of the double beds in the room.

“Dad?” Sam's eyes were huge in his round face, tears leaving clean paths in the dirt from the failed hunt. “Is he...”

“Salt the door, Sam,” John snapped. “Your brother's gonna be fine.”

As the younger boy shakily dug through the supply duffle for a can of salt, John hastily pulled his shirt off, then sat on the edge of the bed to tug his boots free. The hunt had been a disaster. Near as John could figure out it was the ghost of some poor soul that had been lured out to those woods to die of exposure, who now terrorized any campers or hikers who wandered in.

It hadn't even been the ghost. It had been the frozen lake, the lake that should have been sturdy enough to support the weight of one scrawny twelve-year-old boy. John was sure tonight's events would haunt him for the rest of his life—Dean carefully sliding out onto the ice to cross to one of the lake's tiny islands to check for a grave, the ice cracking worryingly under his feet, the panicked cry for his father as the boy plunged into the frozen water below.

His own clothes now a pile on the floor, John tried to gently pry his coat out of Dean's white-knuckled grasp. He'd stripped the boy's sodden clothing as soon as he'd pulled him out of the lake, but it hadn't been enough. Dean was still white-faced, lips nearly blue, all but unconscious and exhausted as his body tried to recover.

“Come on, kiddo,” John murmured. He found the pressure point in the kid's wrist to force him to release the coat, ignoring the guilt that nibbled at him when Dean let out a faint whine. “It'll be okay, son. We'll take care of you.”

Although John's instincts were to toss the boy into a hot bath, John knew that could actually hurt his son. Warming him up gradually was the best, and even though John had gotten soaked to the knees pulling the kid out of the lake he was still a better choice than Sammy.

He yanked the blankets on the double bed back and slide under them, pulling Dean with him. Chest to chest, fighting the instinct to flinch away from the deadly chill of his son's body, John wrapped the blankets around them to trap his body heat in.

“Dad?” Sammy, dirt smeared across his face from where he'd scrubbed one hand at his tears, stood at the edge of the bed with the salt canister in his hands. John sighed, guilt nibbling at him again for snapping at his younger son.

“It's gonna be okay, Sammy,” he said as he tilted his head back to let Dean bury his face in his shoulder. “Hey, do me a favor? Get the blankets from the other bed and pile them on top, okay?”

Sam nodded and jumped to it, dragging the second set of scratchy motel blankets over to his father and brother.

It would be too hot soon enough, but he could deal with that to save the kid's life. John tucked Dean a little closer, trapping the boy's ice-cold feet between his legs. “You're gonna be just fine, bud,” he promised, pressing a kiss to the kid's temple. “Just fine.”

* _Now_ *

“Sammy! Get the door!” Dean hollered.

Ahead of him, Sam was already swinging the motel room door open, breath rising in soft clouds as he hugged his coat a little closer. “I said I had it, Dean,” he bitch-faced back, but even Dean could tell his heart wasn't in it.

“All right, up we go,” Dean leaned down into the car to pull Jack's arms over his shoulder and lift him up in a fireman's carry. “Let's get you warmed up, kid.”

It hadn't even been the ghost—not really. Jack had wanted to make sure the lake's little island wasn't the ghost's resting place, and even though the ice really should have held the weight of one scrawny de-powered half-angel kid it had broken clear through as soon as Jack had gotten about six feet out. Sam had gone after him, but by the time the younger Winchester had pulled the kid clear he'd been pale and trembling and barely conscious.

Hypothermia was a bitch.

By the time Dean hefted the kid through the motel room door Sam already had the blankets pulled back on one bed and was stripping them off the other. Dean gently eased Jack down on the first bed before sitting on the edge to pry his boots off.

“Dean?” Sam already had his shirt halfway off.

“You went in the water,” Dean pointed out. “I've got this.”

Sam looked at him for a moment, before shrugging and pulling the shirt off anyway. “They're wet,” he said in answer to Dean's flat stare.

Dean grunted and turned to gently pry his coat away from Jack. They'd stripped the kid's wet clothes at the lake and wrapped him in Dean's coat—like he'd said, Sam had gone in the water after the kid, while Dean's coat was still warm and dry. But that wouldn't be nearly enough, and this was the kind of cold that could kill a man. “Come on, Jack,” he murmured, squeezing the kid's white-knuckled fist. “Trust me, okay? We're gonna help you, but you gotta let go.”

Jack didn't quite let go of the coat, but his grip loosened enough that Dean could pull the coat away easily. He left his own clothes in a pile on the floor and slid under the blankets, tucking the kid in as close as he could. Jack was like a popsicle, ice cold from head to toe, breath panting out in little pained whimpers that cut right to Dean's heart.

“I know, kid, I know.” Dean gently rubbed one hand up and down Jack's back as Sam tucked the blankets from both motel beds around him. It would probably be all too hot for him soon enough, but that's what you did for family.

“Dean?” Sam had a change of clothes in hand, shivering a little despite the warmth of the room.

“We're good,” Dean replied, tucking Jack's face into the crook of his shoulder. “Go take a bubble bath.”

Sam snorted. “Jerk.”

“Yeah, you love me,” Dean retorted as the door to the bathroom slammed shut. He rested his chin on top of Jack's head and closed his eyes. “Bitch.”

* _Then_ *

Sammy's pacing was starting to get a little on John's nerves. He was of half a mind to tell the kid to switch places with him, and Sam could be Dean's little hot water bottle while John finished the hunt. But even though Dean was still on the scrawny side, Sammy just wasn't big enough.

“Sam,” to his own surprise, John managed to keep his voice calm. He stared around the room to find something to occupy his younger son and his gaze landed on the battered clock radio. “Why don't you find something to listen to?” he suggested, nodding at the radio.

With a sniffle the boy nodded and sat on the other bed, pulling the radio close. John closed his eyes and shifted around a little to free one hand from the blankets to wipe his face. Dean was finally shivering in earnest now as his body started to fight to warm itself up, and John was a little surprised he couldn't hear the kid's teeth clacking together. John ran one broad hand up and down Dean's spine to soothe him, frowning a little when he realized how far his ribs stuck out.

Dammit. He hadn't wanted this life for his boys. How was he supposed to find Mary's killer if he couldn't even take care of his sons?

There was a faint sound as Sam set the radio back on the bedside table. The familiar strains of Kansas filled the air between them, and John found himself humming along almost unconsciously.

_Carry on, my wayward son,_

_There'll be peace when you are done._

He heard another sniffle, and looked up in time to see Sam scrub a hand across his face to brush a tear away. John's heart tightened, and he shifted around to pull the blankets away from Dean's back. “Sammy?”

Sam was in the bed in an instant, wrapping himself around his older brother's body, the sobs that wracked his body almost a counterpoint to Dean's shivering. John pulled the blanket back up to cover Sam and gently patted the younger boy's back. The boys were really too big to share a bed with him like this, but just this once would be okay.

* _Now_ *

Sam emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and girly-smelling hair products. (Okay, so he'd been getting some special herbal shampoo just to keep Dean from stealing it.) The noise and movement pulled Dean out of the light doze he'd fallen into, and he blinked against the dim light of the motel's lamp.

“How's he doing?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean ran one hand up and down Jack's back, encouraging the kid to cuddle in closer. Jack had finally started shivering in earnest, a definite sign his body was fighting back against the cold. Dean just wished it didn't have to hurt him so much. “Getting there,” he finally said in answer to Sam's question.

Sam sat down on the other bed with his laptop, a shudder still runny through his lanky form every now and then. “Maybe we missed something in the records,” he suggested.

“Sammy,” Dean shook his head. He had to push some of the blankets away from his face—he'd pulled them up so high that only a tuft of Jack's hair was poking out. “Dude...give it a break.”

“I'm fine, Dean.”

“Just, come on, just take care of yourself.”

Sam looked up at that, pretending he wasn't huddled in on himself as though even after a long, hot shower he still couldn't quite shake the chill. “I'm fine.”

“Sammy.” Dean pulled a hand free enough to rub across his face, before tucking it back under the blanket to hug Jack closer. “Humor me, okay? Make yourself some of that girly camembert tea or whatever and watch one of your stories.”

“It's _chamomile_ ,” Sam retorted, but at least he put the computer away.

“We got any hot cocoa?”

“What?” Sam had already crossed the room to the little coffeemaker that sat next to the sink. “Uh...yeah, there's one pack over here. You want it?”

“Nah, just. Y'know, when the kid wakes up?”

He could feel his own ears burning at the knowing grin on Sam's face. Hot cocoa hadn't been something Dad really ever bought for them, unless one of them was sick. Winchesters drank coffee...but sometimes there was something in his face, when one of them was sick or hurt and John couldn't quite take care of it...he'd come back with a box of hot cocoa mix and sit on the bed with them until they fell asleep.

Dean blew out a sigh and rested his chin on Jack's head again, closing his eyes. "You're gonna be okay," he murmured again as Jack whimpered through a violent shiver. "I promise."

* _Then_ *

Close to dawn Dean's temperature finally stabilized, though it was maybe a few degrees shy of normal. John slipped out of the blankets and left the boys sleeping, curled up around each other like a couple of puppies. He dug out some clean clothes for himself, showered, shaved, and sat down at the motel room's desk to go back over his notes from the case. He wouldn't take the boys out again, of course, but that spirit had to be stopped.

To his surprise the boys were already stirring. Sam sat up first, his hair bunched up on one side from where he'd been pressed against Dean, tear tracks still obvious on his face. John really should have made him clean up last night, but it was too late for that. Dean seemed groggy, but there was finally some color in his cheeks and he was looking around the motel room with more awareness than he'd shown for the last several hours.

“Dad?” Dean's voice cracked with the question and he folded into himself to cough into one bunched-up fist.

John crossed the room to press the back of his hand to Dean's forehead, frowning a little at what he found. Warm enough, of course, but still a little cool for his liking. “How're you feeling, Dean?”

“Okay, I guess,” Dean managed to shrug as he pulled the blankets around him a little higher. His voice was raspy, as though he'd gotten a lungful of water when he fell in the lake. “The hunt?”

“I'll take care of it,” John said as he sat on the bed to wrap an arm around Dean's shoulders, reaching over to pat Sammy on the shoulder with his other hand. “You boys hungry?”

Dean made a face and hunched over a little more. “Not r-really.”

Sam was staring at his brother, eyes huge in his young face. John frowned again...they should have done enough to warm Dean up through the night. “You still cold, son?”

The boy didn't answer, just huddled down in a miserable little heap.

With a sigh John crossed the room to the little coffeemaker the motel provided. Mary'd be furious he was feeding their son coffee so young, but a hot drink should be enough to perk Dean back up.

But there, on the little tray with the coffee packets and styrofoam cups and vouchers for the motel restaurant, was a single packet of hot cocoa mix. John considered it for a moment, then shifted over so his movements were hidden from the boys. He carefully split the mix between two cups, then brewed up enough hot water to make the cocoa. It would be a little weak, but treats like this were rare enough that the kids probably wouldn't notice.

“How about some cocoa?” he called as soon as it was ready. He looked over his shoulder to see Sam immediately perk up and even Dean look a little less miserable. “Just enough for two cups,” he added, bringing the cocoa over to the boys. He knew if he'd just given it to Dean the boy would have given it to his brother...and any attempt to order him to drink it would have resulted in stubborn refusal. He could grab some soup or something when he went out for the paper—they needed to be back on the road as soon as he took care of this ghost, and he didn't want to drag a sick kid around.

Sam was happily sipping from his cup in loud, exaggerated slurps. Dean was quieter, practically curled around the warmth the little cup of cocoa provided. John watched him take a sip and close his eyes, as though relishing the heat spreading through his belly from the hot drink.

“Better?” John asked kindly, resting one broad hand on the kid's shoulder.

Dean nodded and blinked up at him, offering a trembling smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

Well. It wasn't like he had another urgent hunt lined up. Maybe they could afford to spend _one_ extra day here.

* _Now_ *

When Dean woke up, the first thing he realized was that he was alone in the motel's queen-sized bed. The second was the faint murmur of voices from the table under the window near the door. The third was the daylight streaming in through said window—had he really been asleep the rest of the night?

“Rise and shine,” Sam called cheerfully—far too cheerfully—from where he and Jack were bent over mugs of hot drinks and what looked like seventy years' worth of obituaries.

“Jack?” Dean rubbed his eyes and blinked at the kid. “How you feeling?”

Jack shrugged, hands wrapped around the plain ceramic mug on the table. He was wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants that belonged to Sam (and oh god, they had to get a pic for Mom...and maybe Jody...and definitely Cas), plus the bathrobe from the motel bathroom, with one of the blankets wrapped around him. “Okay, I guess,” he rasped.

Dean had already swung his legs over the bed to cram himself back into last night's jeans. “Sammy?”

“Body temperature is above 96 degrees,” Sam called back. That was good. That was safe.

“Can't believe you didn't wake me up,” Dean complained as he strode up to the table, pulling a T-shirt over his head. Jack had cocoa in his mug—a quick peak at the coffeemaker showed that Sam had raided guest services for more at some point—while Sam had some kind of brownish liquid that was definitely not coffee.

“You were out, dude,” Sam replied. “Jack didn't want to disturb you.”

Dean clapped a hand on the kid's shoulder. “You sure you're okay?”

Jack nodded, beaming up at him. “Sam taught me how to make coffee for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean shot a glance at Sammy, who was hunched forward over the papers on the table to hide his smile. “Thanks, kiddo. You guys find anything?”

The coffeemaker was...smelling like coffee. Dean wandered over to it as Sam shuffled through the information they had on hand. “Finally linked one of the obits up with a missing persons report. A couple got lost boating on the lake a few years ago, but only one of them was ever recovered.”

“So maybe an unreported death?” Well, it was dark like coffee...and when Dean poured a cup of it there were certainly coffee grounds floating in it. How bad could it be.

“Yeah...looks like the guy who was never found wasn't really well-liked by the girl's parents. They were probably just happy to keep the whole thing quiet.”

He took a cautious sip and grimaced as he swallowed the hot liquid. Strong, bitter, and burned...just like Dad used to make.

“How is it?” Jack asked from across the room.

That little shit. No wonder Sammy was drinking tea, he'd been teaching the kid to make _marine_ coffee in a motel coffeemaker.

“It's perfect,” Dean replied, ignoring the grin on his brother's face. It was worth it for the beaming smile that spread across Jack's. “Good job.”

They were here. They were safe. Even if the coffee tasted like it'd been brewed in a boot with an old sock for a filter...that was family. “All right, kids, who's ready for bacon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes...even when I try to write Fatherly!John he stills comes out half bastard. Oh well. 
> 
> Stay safe out there!


	12. Electrocution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He really, really should have remembered the rules about water, exposed wires, and completing a current with the human body. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters less than a week apart? It must be a miracle!
> 
> A bit of a shorty, but that's okay. Wanted something a little lighthearted after how heavy the last couple of chapters turned out.

Sam could have given a sob of relief when the old cabin they'd been staying in finally came into view around a curve in the road. They were soaked through from the torrential rain and wet up to the hips in mud (well, Sam was up to his hips...Dean was practically up to his neck after a bad fall).

“We shouldn't have left her behind,” Dean moaned for about the three hundredth time as they made their way down the long, muddy driveway.

“It's just a car,” Sam snapped back. “It can wait until the rain stops.”

Dean whirled around, finger upraised, ready to argue the point...but the mud underfoot was slick and his feet shot out from under him to leave him sprawled across the road. Again.

“Don't say it,” Dean warned as Sam hauled him back to his feet.

Sam was too exhausted to even think about starting in on his brother. The Impala had gotten stuck in the mud nearly four miles back, and they'd spent almost an hour trying to push it back onto the road before giving up and hiking to the cabin to wait out the rain. “You can take the first shower,” he offered instead. Dean was down on himself already as it was—any time something went wrong with the car Dean tended to take it rather personally.

“Hot water and cold beer, that's all I need,” Dean said in agreement. Sam mostly just wanted _out_ of his muddy clothes, even if he had to wait for the water heater to refill to get his own shower. It wasn't that cold for early Fall, but it was cold enough after an hour of slogging through the rain and mud.

“Home sweet home,” Sam announced, shoving open the door to the cabin. It wasn't the nicest one they'd ever stayed in, thanks to the renovations some enthusiastic hunter had started up some time ago. Most of the drywall had been ripped out to expose the wiring in the walls, the sub-floor in the kitchen was exposed, and—to Dean's dismay—the cable had been disconnected in favor of some kind of high-tech internet router that wasn't even functional.

“ _Finally_ ,” Dean practically shoved Sam out of the way to get into the cabin. He had already stripped off his jacket and boots by the time Sam had finished locking the three sets of deadbolts, leaving the muddy clothing in a pile on the floor.

“Dude!” Sam complained. “What the hell?”

“Tori's replacing the floor anyway,” his brother retorted, dropping his soaked and stained henley on top of the mud-streaked jacket. The jeans were next, and to Sam's relief his brother stopped there, leaving the filthy clothing on the floor to pad into the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and boxers.

“Thought you wanted a shower?” Sam called after him. He sat gingerly on one of the wooden chairs at the cabin's table to pry his own boots off. He was pretty sure he'd picked up an entire swamp in one shoe.

Dean came out of the kitchen with a beer in one hand, flicking the cap into the pile of clothing he'd left on the floor. “Multi-tasking, Sammy,” he said as he took a long pull from the bottle.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You didn't even turn the lights on,” he complained as he stood up, one hand on the metal table for support, to flip the switch.

He really, _really_ should have remembered the rules about water, exposed wire, and completing a current with the human body. All Sam knew was the second he touched the light switch a shock ran through his body, a sharp tingle that seemed to lock his muscles into place even as the pain screamed at him to pull away. It was a spiraling, buzzing sort of pain, like the feeling just before an involuntary twitch but _all over_. His teeth clenched, his arms twisted, his eyes rolled back in his head, his ears buzzed with a distorted sound.

Just when he thought he would pass out from the pain, something slammed into his chest and he fell away in a tangle of limbs. Sam felt his back arch as he hit the ground, feet flailing for purchase, hands and arms curling and uncurling as the electric pain tore its way out of his body.

“Sammy! Come on, man, look at me!”

He was vaguely aware of a few things as the twitching in his body slowed—pressure on his shoulder and the side of his face, as well as a dark shape looming above him. Even though his brain was still misfiring from the shock, Sam took a guess at what (or who) it was. “D-Dean?”

“Christ, Sammy,” Dean heaved out a relieved sigh and squeezed Sam's shoulder. “Next time we sleep in the car, okay?”

Sam whimpered, desperately flailing one hand up and managing to grab Dean's sleeve. “W'happen?”

“Tori apparently thought live wires added to the décor of the place,” Dean replied. He sounded annoyed, but as Sam's vision finally cleared he could tell his brother was just worried. “Coulda been the wires or the table, I dunno. You just kinda...went all stiff and pale and wouldn't answer me. Had to knock you away from the light switch, you wouldn't let go.”

He tried to huff out a protest. Dean should have run for the breaker to cut the power, not risked being caught up in the current as well. Dean apparently caught on to his train of thought and shook his head. “I used a chair, dumbass,” he explained. “Wooden chairs? I know you're the college boy, but even I know wood won't conduct electricity.”

Sam tried to nod, but fell back with a whimper as even that much was painful. He just wanted to curl up somewhere soft and warm and sleep until his arms and legs stopped tingling.

“All right, up and at 'em,” Dean announced, apparently reading his brother's mind again. He wrapped one of Sam's arms around his shoulders and gently lifted the younger Winchester to his feet, supporting him with a hand on his chest when Sam's knees threatened to buckle.

Sam tried to protest but Dean was unyielding, depositing him (mud and all) on one of the beds in the main bedroom. “Dude!” Sam cried out, finally getting a word out as Dean unceremoniously tugged the blankets out from under him to spread over his body.

“Shut up,” Dean replied. “Get some rest, you look like a dandelion.”

Huffing in indignation, Sam jerked one arm free to clumsily run a hand through his hair. If it was frizzy that was from the rain, not the accident with the light switch. “Just get your shower,” he grumbled, wrapping the blanket a little closer.

Dean hesitated for a moment, then patted Sam firmly on the shoulder. “Holler if you need anything,” he said, stretching his back out. He walked toward the door and reached for the light switch, hesitating a moment. He glanced over at Sam, hand hovering over the switch.

“Maybe leave the light on?” Sam suggested wearily.

“Yeah,” Dean pulled his hand back and rubbed it against his leg, flexing the fingers unconsciously. “Yeah, good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not an electrician, but in the old farmhouse I grew up on if you touched the stove and the sink at the same time (and weren't wearing shoes) you would get a pretty nasty shock. I actually had that whole "oh this hurts and I want to let go but my hand won't open" experience once.
> 
> *Gasp* That's two chapters in a row without Castiel! Must! Write! Cas! Whump!
> 
> Quick! Somebody hand me a Reese's cup! And stay safe out there!


	13. "Stay"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Set in season 15) An enemy from the past comes to question Castiel on Chuck's behalf. But he's not the only familiar face back on the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They had dark AND milk chocolate Reese's! Woo-hoo!
> 
> Spoilers for season 15 ahead...up to episode 12 or 13.

“Well, if this isn't my lucky day.”

Dean would know that voice anywhere. It had popped up in his nightmares enough years ago, and even made guest appearances now. “Zachariah.”

The smarmy dick was the same as always. Same tailored suit and greasy smile, like a salesman from a disreputable used-car lot. “Dean, Dean, Dean. Here we are again,” Zachariah spread his hands, encompassing the open floor of the warehouse around them and the group of angels that held the Winchesters pinned between them.

“What do you want?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, and how are you _alive_?” Dean added.

Zachariah smirked and brushed an invisible speck of dust off of his collar. “Did you think Castiel had the monopoly on resurrection? No, Dad brought me back for something important.” Pacing back and forth, Zachariah stopped in front of Sam to catch the younger man's chin in his hands and tilt his head to one side, as thought studying something on his face.

“Lemme guess. Taco Tuesday?” Sammy could yell at him for pissing off the angel freak later, but no way was he just gonna sit here and let that asshole put his hands all over his brother.

“Always with the sarcasm,” Zachariah said, releasing Sam and wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. “Now me? I think you two mud-monkeys aren't worth the sauropods that died to provide fossil fuel for that rust bucket you call a _classic_. But the big man...he thinks you're up to something.” Zachariah tucked the handkerchief back into his jacket pocket.

“Or to be precise,” Zachariah continued as the flutter of wings heralded the arrival of more angels, “thinks _he's_ up to something.”

Horror rose in Dean's throat. Had Chuck found out about Jack? Billie had said he'd be safe, but if Zachariah and his team of resurrected angels had found the kid it was all over. The angels came into sight, dragging their struggling victim between them. Relief and pain twisted together in Dean's chest when he saw that Zachariah hadn't meant Jack...he'd meant Cas.

“Castiel! I must say, the years have treated you...well, let's just say they've treated you,” Zachariah said as the other angels dragged Cas forward to a set of manacles hanging from a support beam overhead.

If Cas was surprised to see his old commander alive again he didn't show it, merely glaring balefully at Zachariah and the other angels as his hands were forced into the manacles. Dean heard a winch being turned from somewhere in the shadows of the warehouse as the chain pulled Cas's arms up above his head until he had to stretch to stay on his feet.

“See, I knew once you heard your pets were in danger you'd come running,” Zachariah continued. He patted Cas on the cheek condescendingly—not hard enough to be a slap, but not quite gentle either. “Dear old Dad thinks you might have a trick or two up your sleeves, and since He hasn't picked up on anything from Thing 1 and Thing 2 over there, well, let's just say He brought me out of retirement to find out.”

“And you have me,” Cas replied. His eyes flickered over the angels that had been brought back with Zachariah, though if he was looking for an ally he found none.“Let them go.”

“Them?” Zachariah turned to shoot the brothers an exceptionally smug grin. “Dad wants them kept back for safe keeping. You know how it is...end of the world, destruction of mankind...time for a special grudge match between His two favorite toys.”

“Like hell,” Dean snarled.

“We killed you three times,” Sam retorted. Dean might have had the explosive, violent fury but Sam's always seemed colder. Even now, pinned in place by no fewer than three angels, Sam managed to sound like he already had a plan.

“Three times?” Zachariah was staring at them in confusion. “I don't...never mind. Doesn't matter.” He waved a hand at the angels holding the brothers down and Sam and Dean were dragged to their feet.

Zachariah pointed at them. "Sit. Stay." Angelic power washed over them, forcing their knees to collapse so that the brothers found themselves seated in a couple of old-fashioned armchairs. There were cuffs on the arms of the chair that locked around their wrists as soon as they were seated. Then ropes twisting around their chests to bind them to the backs of the chairs. Dean heaved his weight back and forth but the chairs were solid and sturdy—there would be no knocking them over to break free.

“Now, Castiel,” Zachariah began. He'd pulled an angel blade out and weighed it in his hands as he circled the captive angel. “Dad thinks you've been hiding something under that filthy little coat of yours.”

“What could I possibly hide from God?” Cas asked wearily. It alarmed Dean to see the exhaustion and defeat in his friend's face already—though maybe the manacles were blocking his grace and he'd been injured by the angels that captured him.

“That's what He sent me to find out,” Zachariah answered. “See, He has this annoying little suspicion...just a tiny one...that the little pest who thwarted His plans oh so many times in the past could be conspiring to do so again.” Zachariah wrapped one hand around the chains above Cas's head to pull him close, tugging him off balance. He placed the tip of his angel blade under Cas's chin and slowly forced his head up, exposing his throat.

Dean could see Cas's adam's apple bob when he swallowed. “Anything I could have done in the past would have only been as He wrote it.”

“That's the thing. The old man gave me a little run-down on what I've missed since pretty boy over there stabbed me in the face. First, you send Dean-o over to Sammy so the devil loses his vessel,” Zachariah punctuated his statements with a slash from the angel blade, leaving glowing tears in Cas's clothing and flesh like tally marks. “Then...you set Michael _on fire_ so the boys can talk about their feelings. Then there was Purgatory—which should have killed you, by the way, Dad locked the Leviathan up for a reason. The angel tablet. Throwing the angels out of Heaven. Destroying the Mark of Cain. Lucifer's brat.

“And then. When Dad had had enough of your rebellion and let Lucifer finish you off you somehow came back _again_. How did you even manage that?”

Cas was nearly shaking, teeth clenched from the pain. He rallied himself enough to stare into Zachariah's face, features tensed with agony and fury. “He brought me back...over and over...He must have approved of my actions.”

Zachariah all but snarled and released the chains with a shake, nearly throwing Cas off his feet. “You were merely a _tool_ to Him.”

Fighting for balance, Cas still held his head high. “And you are not?”

Fury twisted Zachariah's features, but he pulled himself up and locked the emotion away. The dead calm left behind was almost more frightening than the anger. “At least I acknowledge what I am,” he replied. For a moment Dean was afraid Zachariah was going to stab Cas, cut his grace out, maybe get one of those helmet things Crowley used to access angel coding. But he just stared for a moment, then glanced up at the manacles around Cas's wrists.

There was a horrible snap, then Cas's legs buckled and he let out a cry of pain. “You son of a bitch!” Dean roared, vaguely aware of Sam adding his own insults and threats.

“ _Silence!_ ” Zachariah roared. He stiffened, straightened his coat and tie, and cleared his throat. “No more barking or I break more than his wrists.”

The preternatural edge of calm Zachariah always projected was starting to slip, but Dean couldn't see how that could help them. If they pushed Zachariah too far he might just finish Cas off...there had to be a way to make him set one of them free. Even just to take Cas's place...anything would be better than sitting here helpless while his best friend was tortured.

“Zachariah.” Sam's voice sounded much calmer than he was feeling, Dean was sure. He was probably using the puppy-dog eyes too, though Dean couldn't pull his gaze away from Cas's tortured expression to check. “Look, we don't have a plan to stop Chuck. What can we do against God? We're just trying to show Him that He doesn't have to destroy us. Even if it went off-track somewhere this world is pretty great.”

The gray-suited angel was staring at them, face unreadable.

“And you should see the spearmint rhino,” Dean quipped.

Zachariah snorted. “And I'm supposed to believe that?” he demanded. “That the famous Winchester brothers are just rolling over and hoping Daddy spares them just this once? And when has that ever worked?” He stalked over, leaning right down into Dean's face. “What makes you think my Father owes you anything?”

Dean's gaze flickered over Zachariah's shoulder to meet Cas's. Cas's face was etched in pain, unable to slump forward to ease the wounds on his chest and stomach and unable to stand up any straighter to take the pressure off his wrists. But the message in his eyes was clear—whatever happened, to any of them, they had to keep Jack's existence a secret.

“I don't blame you,” Zachariah continued. He walked away from Dean, paused in front of Sam for a moment, then circled around behind Cas. “After all, if I'd had your father I'd have given up, too. Pathetic, drunken coward.”

“At least our father was _here_.”

Dean paused for a second. He was almost sure he hadn't said that, and when he twisted his head to the side he saw that Sam was still panting, hazel eyes leveled at Zachariah's impassive face. “He had his faults but he wasn't a _coward_. He didn't hide away while his children destroyed each other.”

For a moment, fury twisted across Zachariah's face. He grabbed Cas by the shoulder with one hand, and Dean caught a glimpse of an angel blade in Zachariah's other hand before he drove it into Cas's back. Cas let out a cry but tried to bite it back, twisting in Zachariah's grip as the blade plunged all the way in until the tip breached the skin on the other side, just a few inches above Cas's waist. Then Zachariah tore it free, flinging droplets of Cas's blood into an arc behind him.

“You know _nothing_ of my Father,” he snarled. He pulled Cas against him, one hand around the lesser angel's throat, his other hand wrapping around to hold the angel blade just above Cas's thigh. “You can't even _begin_ to imagine His thoughts, you little, insignificant, _parasite_.” He held Sam's gaze as he slowly pierced Cas's leg with the angel blade, driving all the way up to the hilt, the hand on Cas's throat tightening to choke away any cries of pain.

Then Zachariah released him and Cas swung for a second, manacles wrenching at his broken wrists, and barely managed to get his good leg under him.

“We're getting off the subject,” Zachariah announced. He'd regained some semblance of calm, though Dean could see the fury simmering underneath. “The question is, _Castiel_ , what are you planning?” He was in front of Cas again, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the hilt of the angel blade in Cas's thigh. As Dean watched Zachariah twisted the handle and leaned in, forcing the other angel off-balance again so that he jerked against the manacles.

Cas was still staring at Dean, almost pleadingly. The older Winchester held his friend's gaze, trying to tamp down on the helplessness he was afraid was all over his face. They couldn't reveal Jack's existence, and there wasn't anything else that would sound remotely plausible, not enough to stop Zachariah. Dean didn't dare to speak up, for fear that Zachariah would punish Cas even further. He stared back into his friend's eyes and tried send whatever strength and encouragement he could—prayer, telepathy, profound bond, _whatever_.

“You're getting distracted,” Zachariah said in a sing-song voice. “I know...let's take care of these eyes.” He pulled the blade out of Cas's leg and flicked it sideways, so that the arc of blood splattered over the Winchesters. He leaned in, point of the blade right below Cas's left eye. “Let's see how brave you are when you can't eye-grope your little boyfriend.”

“Whoa, whoa, _time out_!”

Dean froze. Actually...everything froze. He tried to look at Sam, but couldn't move anything but his eyes. At least Zachariah seemed in the same boat...and just in time, as Dean saw a single drop of blood under Cas's eye welling up along the tip of the blade.

He could hear footsteps walking up behind him, then a familiar figure with golden-brown hair was staring up at Zachariah. “Geez, who brought grumpy back to life?” Gabriel asked. The archangel shook his head and, with an air of disgust, let his eyes sweep over the room. Then he raised one hand and snapped and Zachariah disappeared. Gabriel nodded in satisfaction. “Well, _time in_ , I guess.”

They could move again. “Cas!” Dean strained against the bonds still holding him to the chair as Gabriel spun back around.

“Easy, big guy, I gotcha,” Gabriel murmured. He'd slung one arm around Cas to support him and pointed at the manacles with his free hand. They fell away in a rather satisfying shower of broken iron and spellwork as Cas fell limply into his brother's arms.

Dean struggled with the ropes and cuffs holding him until Gabriel glanced their way. The chairs and restraints vanished and Dean nearly fell on his ass, but he caught himself and hurried up to Cas's side. Cas seemed barely conscious, blood and grace oozing from the half-dozen slashes across his chest and stomach, as well as the stab wounds in his back and leg.

“Angel blade wounds take time, even for me,” Gabriel said. “I got his wrists, though. He'll be okay.”

He tried to nod, but all of Dean's focus was on his friend. To his relief Gabriel relinquished his hold, letting Dean maneuver Cas's head and shoulders into his own lap.

“Gabriel?” Sam was a little ways away, having gone for an angel blade one of Zachariah's goons had dropped. “Did...did God...?”

“Dad gave up on me long ago,” Gabriel shook his head. “No, I...I had a plan.”

“We saw you die,” Sam insisted.

Gabriel lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “That was a copy.”

Dean wanted to be angry—to shout or threaten or take a swing. If Gabriel had come back through the rift with them so many things would have been different. They wouldn't have needed Michael to take on Lucifer...Jack wouldn't have burned off his soul...God wouldn't be wiping out the world right now. But there was just too much and Cas was bleeding and shaking in his arms, and this had been too damn close _again_.

“And the plan?” Sam prodded.

“Well,” Gabriel drew out the word in a sigh and flicked one hand in the air so that a lollipop appeared between his fingers. “I was looking for angels. There had to be some, right? We had rebellious ones here, so maybe there were some over there. Thought maybe if we got enough we take back Heaven, turn the tide in our favor, or at least bring them over to boost our numbers on this side.”

“Did you?” Sam had joined them now, sitting cross-legged next to Dean. He was still holding the angel blade, but trying not to look like he was ready to go after Gabriel if the archangel turned on them.

“Not enough,” Gabriel shook his head. “I brought about eighteen back with me, before we could go down with the rest of the world. We popped up in the bunker and Jack told us you'd gone missing. Filled me in on a lot, actually.”

From the pained look on Gabriel's face, Dean figured the archangel knew their whole situation. Finding out your Father was wiping the whole slate clean because He'd given up on His creation...yeah, that had to suck. “What about Zachariah?” he asked.

Gabriel's mouth twisted up in a dark smile. “That dick? He's currently starring as the mascot in a ten-year-old's birthday party that'll never end. I'll let them soften him up for a while, then it's our turn to ask questions. The others are in a holding cell upstairs, and I'm the only one with the key, I'm sure if Zach's not willing to spill the beans one of them might...he always did surround himself with anyone willing to follow the biggest dick.”

Dean snorted and ducked his head. Cas was coming around a little more, tired eyes fixed on Gabriel. The archangel noticed and leaned over, resting the tips of his fingers on Cas's forehead. The lesser angel's body lit up with a soft glow, and the pained lines on his face eased a little. The cuts on his chest and stomach closed up a little, though it looked like it would still take more time for Gabriel to completely heal his brother.

“Gabriel?” Cas's voice was rougher than usual, and Dean could still see the shadow of bruises on his throat from Zachariah's hands.

“Don't worry, kiddo,” Gabriel took one of Cas's hands and patted him on the shoulder, lollipop dangerously close to his brother's dark hair. “I'm right here. And this time...I'm staying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Sam, and Jack have all killed a version of Zachariah, that's where the three times came up (Jack killed the one in apocalypse world)
> 
> This is totally my theory of what happened to Gabriel. He was off-screen for a few seconds before he was killed, that's plenty of time to make a copy while the original runs off to look for other angels to either fight the bad ones there or bolster up the garrison here.
> 
> And yes. Zachariah's in a mascot suit. And the kids have bats. And they keep hitting him in the crotch.


	14. Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Season 12 AU) Asmodeus has captured Lucifer and Castiel, but he has bigger plans than simply keeping them out of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof! I have had such a WEEK! (beg pardon...barking is swearing in cat-language)
> 
> Whoops, looks like I wrote two Cas Whump chapters in a row...but that's okay because there's some Badass!Cas mixed in.
> 
> This is another plot that's been done many times before, but I added my own twist to it.

“...I mean, I didn't even _want_ him to be one of my princes, you know? But Arphaxad wouldn't return my calls and Asherah kept making up excuses so, really, I had no choice.”

Castiel let his head rest against the rough stone wall of the prison and tried to block out the devil's incessant voice. As humiliating as it was to be captured, again, his companion was only making things worse. When Lucifer wasn't asking about his son or trying to threaten Castiel into giving up his grace he was whining about the demons holding them captive—particularly Asmodeus.

“I mostly did it because Dagon wanted a little brother, and I just couldn't say no to her. She was such a cute kid, always dripping with the blood of her followers. I still remember the first time she conned some mortals into forming a cult around her....”

“Shouldn't you be gathering your strength to break us out of here?” Castiel interrupted. As fascinating as the power struggles in Hell might be, or as valuable as that information would once have been, the devil's voice was beginning to grate against his nerves.

“Talking is a free action,” Lucifer announced, as though that statement should be significant. “But, hey, feel free to unburden yourself, little brother. How's Sam these days?”

Castiel closed his eyes and tried, once again, to ignore Lucifer's voice. If only he'd been at full power he wouldn't have been captured so easily, but even with his recent resurrection his grace had never been fully restored. He was left in the unfortunate position of needing to rely on the devil to escape—and even then, only if Lucifer didn't betray him at the last minute.

“Oh, here we go again,” Lucifer complained. The sound of heavy boots filled the hall and a half-dozen demons filed into the room beyond the cells, stopping outside of Castiel's. “Come to gawk at the old man, hmm?” Lucifer drawled.

“Boss wants to see you,” the demon at the front of the group said...to Castiel.

He lifted his head enough to glare balefully at the demon before closing his eyes again. “I believe he knows exactly where I am.” They'd have to open the door to retrieve him. That would break the warding, at least on his cell, and if he were fast enough he could take out enough of them out to get away.

“Come on, pretty boy,” one of the demons taunted. “Don't make us use these.”

Castiel opened one eye again to look at the items the demons were holding. They would probably look like ordinary cattle prods to the mortal eye, but Castiel could see the runes and sigils twisting around the shafts and handles of the devices.

Still. They wouldn't work from eight feet away. He closed his eye again and made a show of making himself comfortable against the wall.

Lucifer started snickering. “Kid's got guts,” the devil commented to the nearest demon. “I should know—I've seen 'em. Twice.”

The mocking tone of their former master drove the demons over the edge. Castiel felt more than heard the crackle of the warding being broken, and then three demons were crowding into the cell to take him into custody. He'd been hoping for more of them, as it would be easier to disarm a disorganized group, but three would have to do.

He waited until the first demon drew close enough to strike. He heard the crackle of the cattle prod as the demon prepared to shock him and launched himself forward, grabbing the shaft of the cattle prod with his left hand to wrench it to one side. The demon was pulled off-balance, and Castiel followed up with an open-handed blow to the stomach to double the demon over, then a palm to the forehead to burn it out of existence.

The cattle prod felt strange in his hand, as though even this slight contact was enough to interfere with his true form. Castiel dropped it as the second demon charged and turned away from the strike to grab the demon's wrist as he lunged past. A sharp, upward blow broke the demon's arm near the elbow, causing him to drop his weapon, then Castiel drove his elbow into the demon's face before grabbing him by the jacket and bodily hurling him into the third demon.

An angel blade clattered to the floor, having fallen out of the second demon's jacket. Castiel dove for it, coming up in a combat roll just in time to block the attack from the third demon. He caught the demon's wrist with his free hand and rolled back, using the momentum to plant one foot in the demon's stomach and throw him deeper into the cell.

The others were crowding in now, cattle prods and a couple of angel blades held high. He side-stepped the first attack and pinned that demon to the wall with his angel blade, then spun away and used the momentum to strike a powerful blow against another demon that sent her crashing to the opposite wall. But there were too many, and his grace too limited, and he was unable to block the cattle prod that made contact with his right side.

A horrible jolt shot through Castiel's body and into his true form, sending him to his knees. He tried to lunge for another advancing demon—pull the weapon away, perhaps, or at the very least smite the creature—but another jolt struck him in the back. Every blow from the strange, warded cattle prods seemed to seize his body up for a fraction of a second, and outnumbered as he was even that brief time was too long.

Then it was fists and feet and more shocks as the demons tore into him. He was beaten down, rolled onto his stomach, his hands pulled to the small of his back and bound with barbed chains. The wounds to his body and grace were enough to render him helpless despite his initial defiance, and his tormentors began jeering as Castiel's shoulder slumped in defeat. A demon took each arm to drag Castiel out of the cell and toward Crowley's old throne room where Asmodeus had set himself up as king.

“Oh, come on!” Lucifer protested from his cell as the angel was dragged away. “Can I watch? I can give you pointers!”

The demons, thankfully, ignored the fallen archangel as they hauled Castiel through the maze of passages to their waiting leader. He tried to focus on the path they were taking to make note of any guards or alternate ways to the surface, but the paralyzing burn from the cattle prods was still making his head spin. That, and the demon's relentless pace, meant he was barely aware of the turns they made before he was hauled in front of Asmodeus, face-to-face with Lucifer's so-called weakest creation.

Asmodeus stared him up and down with obvious disdain. “I see you had some trouble,” the prince of hell drawled.

“He killed Harker and Suzette,” one of the demons complained. The one whose arm Castiel had broken, he noticed. “He's more dangerous than he looks, boss.”

“He's a seraphim,” Asmodeus retorted contemptuously. In the blink of an eye he'd pulled his own angel blade out and buried it in the complaining demon's neck. “And it's _my lord_ , not 'boss'.”

Castiel watched dully as the demon's smoking vessel collapsed to the ground. Asmodeus stepped over it almost primly to walk closer to the captive angel, straightening his tie and adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “Put him over there,” he ordered, nodding to a slat-backed chair near one of the room's pillars. The demons holding Castiel dragged him over to the chair and forced him to sit down. His hands were threaded between two of the slats in the back, the chain around his wrists fastened to a hook in the pillar.

“As I'm sure you are aware,” Asmodeus began, “we have a common objective in mind, Castiel. You want to find your little half-angel boy before he can damage the world irreparably and I want the same. We both just want the boy to be safe.”

He nearly rolled his eyes at the demon's words. As though it were that simple. If Asmodeus wanted Jack for something it certainly wasn't to keep the boy safe. “At no benefit to yourself, of course,” he replied.

“Of course.” Asmodeus spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “We're of the same mind. We want to keep the boy away from his father, teach him how to make his own way in the world. And if he happened to do a favor or two for us along the way, well...parenting has its benefits.”

Castiel rattled the chains that held him in place and stared up at Asmodeus, features twisted into a scowl. “And this is how you ask for a favor?”

“It's much more pleasant than the alternative.”

They stared at each other for a handful of seconds before Castiel shook his head and leaned back as far as the chair would allow. “Even if I knew where he was, I wouldn't tell you.”

Something flickered in Asmodeus's face, too quickly to really identify. “Pity. Well, I do have other uses for you.” He raised one hand and beckoned toward the corner of the room.

Another demon, this one in a hulking, scarred vessel, wheeled up a cart with a dark cloth covering its surface. He stopped the cart next to a brazier that was burning to light the throne room and whisked the cloth away, revealing a selection of small, metal tools.

“I'm sure you know Lucifer is in fact an archangel,” Asmodeus said, picking up one of the tools and holding it to the light. “As such, any device we could devise that would work on our kind wouldn't harm the hairs on his head. So we've had to improvise.”

The big demon started picking the tools up, one by one, and inserting them into the flames of the brazier. Castiel felt a twist of fear...and maybe resignation...as the metal began to glow white-hot in the flames. They were branding irons. And, from what he could see, the ends were etched with Enochian sigils. The words were hard to make out, but something about the way the script was swirled around itself brought painful memories of light and the drill and blood in his eyes while Naomi's voice rewrote his memories.

“Last chance,” Asmodeus offered. He was holding an ornate pitcher over the brazier, tilted as though to douse the flames.

Castiel lifted his chin. He had endured more in his long life than Lucifer's weakest creation could fathom. Asmodeus gave a feral smile and upended the pitcher into the flames, creating a smoking column of fire as the holy oil within the pitcher ignited.

The big demon was at Castiel's side now and twisted one massive fist in his hair to pull his head back, exposing his throat, as Asmodeus plucked a branding iron from the fire.

* * *

It took less than an hour for the runt to start screaming.

Lucifer stood up from his meditative pose (yes, he could meditate, thank-you-very-much, there just hadn't been reason to when there were other, much more entertaining things to distract himself with). He'd figured out a way to crack through the warding ages ago, just needed to build a little power to do so, but had been waiting to see what Ass-modeus had wanted with Castiel first.

If Cassie was giving away the location of Lucifer's son after a little torture, as Dad as his witness Lucifer was gonna gut the little brat once and for all. Hell, he'd probably do it anyway. Cassie just had that kind of face, you know? The kind you wanted to stab. All that earnestness and honor and loyalty...it was creepy, really.

“Hey, warden!” Lucifer shouted. He was careful to only lean close to the bars and not touch them outright—he'd regained enough power that the warding wouldn't hurt anymore, but no need to let the minions know that. “I never got my phone call!”

The demon was ignoring him. And after a full rendition of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”. Some demons just had no taste.

After what seemed like an eternity (but was probably just another hour or so, judging by the screams) he heard footsteps approaching from the throne room. The demon on guard heaved out a dramatic sigh (and probably said “finally” under his breath, but Lucifer chose to ignore that. He was a joy to be around. They should be fighting for the chance to be in his presence again).

A pair of demons came into sight, dragging Castiel between them. The kid stunk of blood and smoke and burnt flesh and...oh, yuck, was that holy oil? What in Dad's name was Asmodeus even up to?

“Keep an eye on the prisoners,” one of the demons said as they dropped Cassie into his cell. “Lord Asmodeus has business topside.”

“Me?” the demon who'd been on guard protested. “Come on, I've been here all day.”

“Lord Asmodeus's orders,” the other demon replied, a bit smugly. “Don't worry, Carson. We'll bring you back a souvenir.”

Carson—the guard—stared after the pair a little sulkily. He slammed the door shut to Castiel's cell and dug through his pockets for the key. It was kind of useless, as far as Lucifer could tell...the runt was half-dead, what little grace he had stretched thin to knit his flesh back together.

“Carson,” Lucifer called, waving his fingers when the demon turned to glower at him. “Sucks to be you, huh?”

“What would you know?” Carson demanded, stalking over to the door to Lucifer's cell. “Lord Asmodeus obviously considers this an important duty.”

“I thought this warding was unbreakable,” Lucifer argued. He tapped the cell door and flinched back from the spark of power with an exaggerated expression of pain. “Kinda seems like they put you here to be out of the way.”

“Like you?” Carson challenged. He took another step forward, nearly touching the door now. “Kinda seems like they put you here to forget about you...old man.”

With a feral grin Lucifer stuck his hand through the bars to grab Carson by the lapels and slam him into the warding. “Oh, look at that, I broke it,” he snarled, delighted to see the fear growing in the demon's eyes. With his free hand he dug around at the demon's side until he found the stolen angel blade—geez, did these guys all have these things?—and rammed it home into the demon's neck.

Carson's meat suit was still sparking on its way down when Lucifer pushed the door open. “That's better,” he commented to the demon's corpse. “You know, I never did know what Crowley saw in you bureaucratic types. Just _blahblahblah_ and then you die.”

Castiel's cell was still unlocked, so Lucifer yanked the angel blade out of Carson's neck and strode over to the little angel. His intent was to salvage what he could from the runt before busting back out of hell, but he pulled up short.

The kid was a mess. His grace was even worse off that Lucifer had suggested—it looked like part of it had been cut away at some point, and what was left wasn't much better. His vessel was covered in burns and brandings, most straight through Cassie's clothing and into his skin. The scent of melted polyester mingled with the stink of burnt flesh and holy oil, and Lucifer could already see infection setting in to some of the worst wounds.

He crouched down to study the burns more closely, recognizing the Enochian script. That was...troubling. Some of these were made to target an archangel's grace. They were more than enough to tear into poor little Castiel here, but they might have actually done some damage had Ass-modeus used them against Lucifer.

So. Asmodeus hadn't been torturing the brat for the location of Lucifer's kid. He'd been doing a test-run before trying to torture _Lucifer._

Lucifer slowly rose to his feet and stared down at the pipsqueak. It would be so easy to gut him and take what little was left of his grace...but something held him back. Maybe it was the damage he'd seen when they shared a body, or the ravages on his true form Lucifer could detect. Maybe it was the aftermath of torture and the knowledge that Asmodeus had planned his for Lucifer. Maybe it was simply the knowledge that death probably _still_ wouldn't stick to the runt and he'd just be back, probably with a new coat and bigger hair or something.

“Oh my Dad, I'm getting soft,” Lucifer groaned. He aimed a kick at Castiel, using the contact to shove the little pest through the ether toward the Winchesters' secret clubhouse. He'd probably crash right into their fancy map table, if he didn't ricochet off the warding into the nearest tree. Either way, not Lucifer's problem anymore.

The demons that were now pouring down the hall were, however. He rolled his shoulders and tossed the angel blade up and down to test the balance. Not his preferred weapon, but it would do.

This, at least...this would be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, mark it on your bingo card, I finally did actual plot with Lucifer. 
> 
> Sometimes I worry that my neighbors are watching me through the window. Then I realize they're just seeing me choreograph fight scenes while sitting at my kitchen table, dodging a persistent tuxie cat that wants his head petted. 
> 
> I know, I know, I just had Lucifer drop-kick an injured Castiel into the bunker and robbed you of the delicious comfort and potential Winchester hugs. It's coming, I promise, I just wanted to focus on the whump in this chapter. I wrote Lucifer for you! Doesn't that count for anything?
> 
> Stay safe out there! Whumptober 2020 is only a few weeks away!


	15. Manhandled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Lucifer's escape from Asmodeus, Cas literally crash-lands in the bunker. Luckily the Winchesters are there to pick up the pieces. (Sequel to previous chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Had some medical issues and depression problems, but I finally got this monster finished. And man, it kicked my ass over and over and over. This is, like, version eight? I think?
> 
> There is some gross content, dealing with a treating burns. It's not too bad, but if thinking about that kind of stuff bothers you just be warned.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me!

“ _This is my voicemail. Make your...voice..._ ”

Dean closed out the call and dropped his phone onto the table with a heavy sigh. Sam glanced up from his laptop, face tensed in sympathy. “Still nothing?”

“It's ringing through,” Dean explained with a gesture at the phone. “So his phone's still on, he's just not answering.”

“GPS isn't showing anything either,” Sam said. “Last known location was near the park with the entrance to Heaven, but that was weeks ago.”

Dean folded his arms and glared down at the glossy surface of the table. Jack was in Apocalypse World, Cas was in the wind, and their leads were burning out faster than a book of hotel matches.

“Maybe we should try the location spell again?” Sam suggested. They'd tried it twice with no result—wherever Cas was he seemed to be out of their reach.

Before Dean could reply, the bunker began to shake around them. They stared at each other for a split-second before things went straight to hell—the lights cut off, emergency sirens began to blare, and an explosion of impact from the war room that knocked both brothers off their seats and blew books and knick-knacks around the room as though the bunker were suddenly at the center of a whirlwind.

“What the hell was that?” Dean shouted over the roar of the alarms. He pulled himself up to his feet, leaning against the library table for support, as everything around them still seemed to tremble. “Earthquake?”

“In Kansas?” Sam shot back. He'd already fumbled for his phone and was swiping through the programs Charlie had synced up to the bunker's systems. “I think something hit us.”

Great. What would have the power to blast not only through the bunker's defenses but also cause this much chaos? Dean picked his way through the library, shoving debris to the side as he forged a path. He could hear Sam behind him rattling off the status reports of several different systems, but pretty much tuned him out. Whatever had hit had been big, like skyscraper big, and he wasn't gonna sit around until it found them.

“The only wards that aren't powered up now are the celestial ones,” Sam was saying. “With Lucifer in Apocalypse World we never reactivated those.”

“Son of a bitch...” Dean couldn't explain it, but he just knew. He doubled his efforts to muscle his way out of the library, almost as though there was a separate force pulling him forward.

They made it to the war room to find further chaos. Small fires around the room sent dark, oily smoke spiraling up to a hole that had been bored straight through the upper levels of the bunker. The sky above was deep blue with the hint of the coming night, though the edges of the hole were smoldering and melted. Several machines in the room had melted, or exploded, or both—and the map table was broken in half from the impact of a very familiar figure.

“Cas!” Ignoring the fire, the blaring alarms, the sudden shock of an unwanted skylight, Dean shoved his way through the debris to reach his friend's side. “Cas, what the hell happened?” A new smell hit his nostrils when he reached the angel in the center of the room. It was the smell of burnt clothing and flesh, with the slight undercurrent of sulfur that hung around after an encounter with a demon.

Then he saw the brands. They were circular, maybe two inches across, and practically covered Cas's face and neck. They were burned through his clothes, some melting the cheap polyester of Jimmy's suit into his skin. Some just left raised, swollen ridges on his skin...while some went deep into the flesh, blood welling up in the lines between the cracked and blackened skin.

“Cas...oh god.” Sam was right behind him, sweeping plaster dust away with his long arms. He sounded sick, and a quick glance revealed that the other hunter's face had gone pale. Dean could only imagine what his own face looked like, though there wasn't time to worry about that now.

“Come on, buddy,” Dean half-climbed onto the broken edge of the table to crouch over his friend, hands hovering as he tried to find an uninjured patch of skin. He settled for trying to get one hand under Cas's head, if only to check for injuries there. “I think he's breathing,” he called over his shoulder to Sam.

“Dean, this looks bad,” the younger Winchester said, unnecessarily. No shit it was bad. Their best friend got punched through the ceiling hard enough to set everything on fire...yeah, it was bad. “Can you see his arms?”

Cas's arms were pulled tightly behind him, a though he was bound in some way. “Help me get him over,” Dean replied. Carefully—very carefully—he braced one hand on a small patch of uninjured skin on Cas's chest and slid the other behind his friend's shoulders. Sam had scrambled up the debris on the other side and gave a nod that he was ready, and the brothers gingerly rolled Cas onto his side toward Dean.

“His back looks fine,” Sam announced. “Looks like the burns are concentrated on his chest and face.”

“His hands?” Dean prompted.

“Yeah,” Sam was already gently tugging at the cuffs of Cas's trench coat. He gave a small grunt of surprise. “These are Men of Letters cuffs.”

“Great. So you can pick them,” Dean said. His voice came out harsher than he'd meant it to, but he didn't have it in him to spare the kid's feelings right now. They needed to get Cas out of here and take care of his wounds, not philosophize about what hardware his captors had been using.

Sam threw him a bitch-face. “It means I have the key,” he retorted. He'd already dug his keys out—mostly ones for the cabinets and locked rooms in the bunker, but Dean was relieved to see the small handcuff key in his brother's hands. The lock opened with a satisfying click, and Sam jammed the cuffs into his back pocket before bracing Cas's back to lower the angel back down.

“Come on, man,” Dean muttered. He and Sam shifted Cas's arms free to rest at his sides, and Dean finally saw that the angel's wrists were torn and bruised like he'd been struggling in the cuffs for some time. And that...seemed to be it, apart from the burns (which were horrifying enough). No battle wounds, no big glowing holes, just a handful of faint bruises and a dozen or more terrible brandings.

“Dean...” Sam shook his head. “We have to get him to the infirmary.”

“Yeah, any ideas?” Not that they couldn't carry him, but they had no idea what the rest of the bunker looked like. Hauling Cas around until they found a clear bed seemed like a really bad idea.

“Maybe we have a wheelchair or something,” Sam offered. “I'll clear a path.”

“Go for it,” Dean jerked his head toward the hall to the infirmary. He watched Sam picked his way back out of the rubble, nearly tripping over what had once been a seismograph. Normally Cas could just brush off pretty much anything, but whatever had punted him here had done a real number on him. And those brands...they looked fresh and raw, like they weren't even healing, and Dean thought some of the spiraling designs looked like Enochian.

Something gave way overhead and a chunk of the ceiling clattered to the ground in a shower of plastger dust. With a muttered curse Dean shucked off his overshirt and spread it over Cas's damaged chest in a probably-futile attempt to keep detritus out of the open wounds. He hesitantly rested one hand on one of Cas's shoulders, carefully avoiding a nasty, twisted branding that seemed to be sparking out grace as he tried to make sense of his friend's wounds. There weren't other injuries as far as he could tell, though the burns were bad enough. No battle wounds or signs of other torture.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean murmured, brushing some crumbled plaster out of Cas's hair. He seemed to be radiating heat, more so than usual, and Dean let the back of his hand rest on a patch of unblemished skin. It was hot to the touch, too hot to be a healthy temperature. “Dammit.”

There was a hint of movement under his hands, then Cas's brow furrowed and his eyelids fluttered. “Hey, hey, c'mon,” Dean said encouragingly, straightening up so that he was leaning over Cas's body. His hand moved from Cas's shoulder to the side of his face, carefully avoiding the swirling brand that blistered the skin there. “Cas?”

A muscle in Cas's jaw twitched and the lines on his forehead deepened, as though it was taking a great deal of strength to pull himself back to consciousness. A clatter of noise heralded Sam's arrival and Dean glanced up to see his brother struggling back into the room with a collapsible stretcher under one arm.

“I think he's coming to,” Dean called before he turned his attention back to Cas. “Open your eyes, buddy, come on.”

He barely noticed Sam climbing back up beside him as Cas's face tensed. Then, with almost painful slowness, the angel's eyes creaked open.

“Dean?”

Dean felt some of the tension flood out of his body at the sound of the familiar voice, though rougher and huskier than usual. “Right here, man.”

“We've got you, Cas,” Sam added. “It's okay, we're gonna help you.”

Cas's gaze flickered to Sam, then back up to Dean. “Where...”

“You're home,” Dean replied. His hand slid down to the angel's upper arm to give it an encouraging squeeze. “Crash-landed through the roof. The hell you been, man?”

The angel's eyes fluttered closed and he let out an exhausted sigh. “Asmodeus.”

Dean choked down the fury that twisted up at the mention of the demon prince's name. He should have known something was wrong before it came to this. “All right, let's get you out of here.”

“Lucifer!” Cas's hoarse shout startled the brothers, and one hand latched around Sam's arm with an iron grip, fever-glazed eyes staring up at them. “He's...” Cas's voice broke off and he coughed wetly. Dean pushed an arm behind the angel's shoulders and hauled him upright, letting him lean against the older hunter's body for support.

“He's back,” Sam finished Cas's thought. His face had paled at the words, but he seemed to rally himself. “Is that what happened? Is he working with Asmodeus?”

Cas shook his head and slumped even further against Dean. “Captured...both of us,” he ground out. “Don't know....”

“Hey, it's okay,” Dean interrupted. “We'll figure it out.”

Sam pushed himself backward to kick a path through the debris left on the floor. “The hall's pretty clear once you get past the doorway,” he called over his shoulder to Dean. “Cas, think you can make it to the stretcher here? I'm not sure we can bring it closer.”

Cas nodded, though his eyes had slid closed again and he was leaning almost all of his weight on Dean for support. Dean rolled his eyes at his friend's stubbornness. “Just a few feet, man. Come on, let's get you up.” It was awkward, but he kept one arm behind Cas to brace his shoulders, while his other hand wrapped around Cas's upper arm. Sam joined them on Cas's other side, and together they walked the angel the short distance to the stretcher.

He was nearly unconscious again by the time they reached it. His steps had slowed and dragged until the brothers' forward momentum was the only thing keeping him on his feet as they manhandled him through the debris to lower him to the stretcher. Dean let out a sigh and stood back up to stretch his back until it popped. “Ready?”

Sam was looking up at him, face creased in worry. “Sure you can handle it?”

“Shut up,” Dean waved a hand in his brother's direction. “I can still kick your ass and you know it.”

Sam muttered something that could have been “yeah, right” under his breath, but Dean chose to ignore that. He knew it was a show, a burst of bravado to cover up their worry. He grabbed the handles near Cas's head instead and gave his brother a nod. They lifted it together, gingerly. How was Cas always so damn heavy? He was smaller than either of them (if only by a few inches in Dean's case), but Dean could haul Sammy's scrawny ass around more easily than Cas's any day of the week.

“Don't drop him,” Dean cautioned. That earned him a bitch-face, even more impressive considering Sam was slightly hunched over to keep the stretcher level and walking backwards. “I'm just saying, man, don't drop him!”

“Dean?”

“Sammy?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

Halfway to the infirmary Cas grew restless. He twisted on the stretcher, muttering something under his breath. Dean swore as the handles of the stretcher were nearly pulled out of his hands. “Cas!”

His voice only seemed to increase the angel's panic, making the brothers struggle to keep from dropping him. Sam started lowering Cas's feet, face tense with worry. “Put him down, Dean.”

Before Dean could act Cas lunged to one side, jerking the stretcher out of Dean's grasp, and crashing to the floor with a cry of pain. Dean dropped to his knees and fumbled for Cas's shoulders in an attempt to roll him onto his back. “Dammit, Cas, stop fighting me!” He tried to keep his tone calm, but frustration and panic made his voice sound tight and angry.

“Cas?” Sam grabbed Cas's wrists and pinned them together, grunting in pain when the angel's knee made contact with his side. “I don't think he can hear us.”

“No kidding,” Dean growled through clenched teeth. He hated to do this, but what other choice did they have? There was just no way to pin him down without hurting him, and if they let him go who knew what kind of damage he'd do to himself? “We got morphine?”

“Maybe,” the younger Winchester dodged another blow from Cas's knee and released one hand to pin the angel's leg down. “Think that would work?”

Human medicine didn't usually work on angels, of course, but Cas seemed to get weaker and weaker over the last few years. Even his recent resurrection from the Empty hadn't managed to restore him to full power. “Worth a shot,” Dean replied. “Go, I've got him.”

For the second time, Sam ran to the infirmary and left Dean to tend to an unconscious Castiel. This time, of course, their friend was out of his mind with pain and fever, not merely catatonic. “Wake up for me, buddy,” Dean ground out. He'd managed to pin Cas down by the upper arms, with one knee across the angel's thighs, avoiding at least the worst of the wounds.

He shouldn't have been able to hold Cas down like this. Manhandling an angel of the lord like he was a drunken frat boy just shouldn't be possible. Even when falling—even as a human—Cas had still been tough as nails.

Yeah. Asmodeus was officially at the top of a very short list.

“Dean?” Sam was jogging back up the hall, a little zippered case about the size of a pencil box in one hand. “We don't have too much left,” he commented in a worried voice.

“It'll be enough.” It probably wouldn't be enough, but no use all of them worrying about it now. “Where do.... Dude! Come on!”

Sam was already unbuckling Cas's belt, sticking his hands in practically under Dean's crotch. Dean could practically _hear_ his little brother rolling his eyes. “It has to go in the muscle, Dean. Thigh's the easiest to get to.”

“Yeah, well, could'a bought us both a drink, first,” Dean grumbled.

Sam was ignoring him, of course. The younger Winchester had a syringe out and was holding it up to the light as he drew the morphine into the barrel. Cas was still struggling, though his movements had been steadily growing weaker.

“Ready?” Sam asked, holding the needle over the exposed flesh of Cas's upper leg.

“Go for it.”

The moment the needle touched Cas's skin he _screamed_.

* * *

“Sammy!”

Sam shook his head, trying to blink away the spots in his vision and the ringing in his ears. He was on the ground, broken syringe in hand, several feet away from where Dean was trying to subdue a delirious Castiel. He scrambled to his feet, dropping the syringe to one side, and lunged for Cas's legs. Dean's lip was bleeding and one eye was starting to swell up. “What now?”

“Give him a second,” Dean said through gritted teeth. “C'mon, Cas. You remember us, right?”

“He can't hear you,” Sam retorted. “It's like he's...” having a flashback. “Dean, hold him for a second.”

“What the hell?” Dean yelped as Sam released Cas's legs. Sam ignored his older brother's protests—and the loud curses that followed him down the hall—and simply ran for the infirmary for the third time in the last hour.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of water from the infirmary's cooler. “Next time Dean gets to do the wind sprints.” Then he was back up the hall, running the dozen or so yards to where his brother was futilely trying to hold down a hallucination angel of the lord.

“Sammy!” Dean called again, though his voice was tinged with frustration instead of panic this time. “You'd better have a good reason for-”

“Get back!” Sam cut his brother off. He wrenched the lid of the bottle free and squeezed the fragile plastic so that the contents were emptied into Cas's face. Some of them wound up on Dean, of course, because his brother had been slow to respond, but the end result was the same. Cas froze, eyes slamming open in shock, chest heaving for breath.

Sam let out a huge breath of relief and doubled over, hands on his thighs.

“Cas?” Dean, water dripping off half of his face, leaned back over the angel again. “Cas, you with us?”

Cas shuddered and gave a weak nod, raising one hand unsteadily to grab Dean's sleeve. “What happened?” he rasped out.

“You might have had a panic attack,” Sam answered, crouching down beside Dean. “Or a flashback maybe. We couldn't wake you up.”

“Yeah, well, it's done,” Dean interjected before the conversation could get any further. “Infirmary's not too far now, wanna walk it or try the stretcher again?”

Cas gave another shudder and tried to roll away from Dean, like he was trying to climb to his feet on his own. “Walk.”

Dean slid one arm behind Cas's shoulders to help him sit up, and Sam grabbed him by the forearms. Together they hoisted the angel to his feet, then supported him on each side for the rest of the trip to the infirmary.

“Dean?” Cas began.

“I swear to god, Cas, if you're about to apologize for what you did when you were having some kind of traumatic freak-out, I'm gonna dye your trench coat _puce._ ”

Sam tried to hide his snort of laughter in a cough. That was a new one—apparently threatening to burn the coat or hide Cas's car keys wasn't working anymore.

“It's most likely ruined anyway,” Cas said as they helped him down the steps into the infirmary.

That brought the reality of the situation screaming back into Sam's mind. Not only had their friend been tortured and marked with sigils to block his grace...he'd been branded straight through his clothing. Some of Cas's clothes were _melted_ into the brandings.

“Yeah, well, you're on pajama duty until you heal up anyway,” Dean replied, his voice gruff with what Sam recognized as “feelings”.The more Dean sounded like he'd just woken up from hibernation, the more he actually cared.

They finally got Cas sitting on the edge of one of the beds, pants pooling around his calves as Sam realized he'd never re-buckled Cas's belt. That was when Sam noticed that the burns seemed to be contained to Cas's torso and face, plus one on each bicep. Nothing on the rest of his body. He swallowed, forcing himself to focus on his friend's injuries. Dean was already cutting away the rest of Cas's clothing, leaving just the pieces stuck in the burns.

God, the smell. He could never, _never_ get used to the smell of burning flesh. He'd always preferred healthier options to the grease-filled burgers Dean liked so much, but ever since Hell Sam had pretty much given up on meat. It was hard to enjoy when the smell reminded you too much of your own flesh sloughing off your bones, hair sizzling, the heat and the pain and...

“Sammy.” Dean's voice was gentle, and Sam realized his big brother was standing in between him and Cas now. “I got this.”

“What? No,” Sam shook himself. Not now, not when his friend needed him. “I'm okay, Dean.”

“You're as puce as Cas's coat is gonna be if he doesn't stop trying to apologize,” Dean retorted. “I've got this part, Sammy. Get some fresh air.”

Sam wanted to argue, wanted to push his brother aside and do his part to help, but one more glimpse of the ruined, blackened skin at the base of Cas's throat...cracked and bleeding from his panic attack in the hall...and Sam's stomach nearly rebelled. “I'll...I'll put some coffee on,” he finally said, spinning to walk out of the room, trying to keep himself in check.

“Sounds good to me, Sammy,” Dean called after him. “Use the good stuff this time!”

* * *

One of the least comfortable parts of the whole thing—past the injuries themselves, of course—had been trying to figure out what the brands looked like. Cas had wanted to see them, but he was still too weak to do more than squint at the hand mirror Dean was holding up. Maybe if they could have dragged him to the floor-length mirror in the bathroom or something, but that would have to wait until he was back on his feet.

Dean had taken pictures as best he could, but some had been burned too deeply into the flesh and were unrecognizable. In some places the skin was just too far gone, and with the bits of Jimmy's suit melted in there had been nothing to do but scrape it all out, and he'd held it together until he got the last bit of gauze wrapped around Cas's mangled torso before bolting for the nearest empty sink.

Cas had apologized, of course. Dean had swatted at him with a damp towel and threatened to buy him a women's trench coat next time because Castiel probably wouldn't know the difference. Now Cas was wrapped up in about a mile of gauze and tucked up in the infirmary bed, cold compresses on his forehead and the back of his neck to fight the fever. A couple of the burns had looked inflamed, possibly the beginnings of infection, and Dean hoped Cas would get his mojo back before they got too bad.

“Dean?” Sammy was in the doorway, steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

“It's all done,” Dean answered, waving his brother in. There were things you didn't tease each other about. Sam didn't mention any time Dean freaked out about tight spaces...Dean didn't harsh on the kid for not having the stomach for stuff like this. Hell, he probably wouldn't be up for barbecue for a few weeks after this.

“Sorry...” Sam began.

“Not you, too,” Dean groaned. He was keeping his voice quiet, even though Cas wasn't sleeping. “I swear to god, next person who apologizes to me is getting their head shaved.”

Sam ducked his head, but Dean could have sworn he caught a glimpse of dimples beneath the curtain of hair. “Sorry,” he repeated, but this time he sounded like he was fighting back a laugh.

“You're lucky I'm too tired to get my razor,” he grumbled. He accepted the mug from Sam and took a swig, letting the harsh, black coffee wash some of the stink of burnt flesh out of his throat.

“What's this?” The younger Winchester had spotted the rough sketches Dean had made of the brands on Cas's chest.

“We were trying to figure out the sigils,” Dean explained with a sigh. “Cas thought if we could get a handle on the kind of spell Asmodeus was using we might be able to break it faster. But they don't make any sense.” He took another sip of coffee. Sam had used the good stuff. He was definitely gonna have to pick up veggie burgers next time he was in town, just act like he'd grabbed the wrong thing.

“I see what you mean. The text here is a pretty common Enochian binding prayer, but it's not structured like a normal sigil. See how the lines of text twist around each other?” Sam shoved the paper closer to Dean, tracing his finger along the lines of text.

“Yeah, I noticed that, too.” He shook his head and rubbed one hand across his eyes. “Still can't figure out what it means.”

Sam was just staring down at the paper, brow furrowed in concentration. “It reminds me of something...”

Dean snorted. “It reminds me of a bad tattoo. Remember? When we got ours touched up? That chick with the lip ring, getting her ex's name covered over? She had twisty loops like this.”

His brother was already pulling his phone out, furiously typing something into a search engine. “Something like this?” he asked, turning it around to show Dean a picture.

It was one of those three-pointed Celtic knots, tattooed on someone's shoulder blade. “Yeah, that's it,” he replied with a nod. “Except hers was kind of sloppy, one side was bigger than the other.”

“This could be why these sigils are so powerful,” Sam explained. “If Asmodeus is combining Enochian warding with Celtic spellwork to amplify their power, that could explain why he thought these would work on Lucifer.”

“Yeah? And where does that leave us?”

Sam's shoulders slumped. “I don't know.”

Cas stirred then, weary eyes opening to regard the brothers. “Sam might be right,” he offered weakly. Dean was already up and crossing over to the bed, repositioning the cold compress on Cas's forehead.

“I told you to get some sleep,” he chided.

The angel grimaced, shivering under the compress. “I'm fine,” he whispered.

“And I'm Taylor Swift,” Dean retorted. “I think you're temperature's down, though,” he added, pressing the back of his hand to Cas's cheek.

“My grace is returning,” Cas said. His voice might have sounded a teensy bit stronger, but Dean was still planning on enforcing bed rest for the next few days. Longer if he could swing it. Hell, he'd settle for Cas never leaving their sight again, the angel always seemed to get in trouble when he was out wandering around by himself.

“And the...the brands?” Sam asked. The younger Winchester still looked a little green thinking about it, but Dean really couldn't blame him.

Cas frowned again, freeing one arm from the blankets enough to let his hand rest against his bandaged throat. “The sigils are powerful, but they cannot contain an angel's grace for long. Our...our vessels are too easy to repair for such spellwork to be permanent.”

“Is there anything we can do?” His brother had joined him at Cas's bedside, all seven feet of floppy hair and puppy-dog eyes.

The angel had closed his eyes, lying back on the infirmary bed in an attitude that almost seemed relaxed. “It is enough to know the source of the binding,” he whispered, his strength obviously failing him after a few minutes of conversation. “It...it will fade.”

“But what if there's a way we can break it?” Sam insisted. “If we can find the specific spells Asmodeus altered we could find a counter-spell.”

“Sam,” Cas was looking up at the younger Winchester, expression a mix of pain and fondness. He managed to snag Sam's wrist, making him stop mid-argument. “I just need time.”

Dean could see this was going nowhere. Sam wouldn't give up, Cas would try to fight him, and they'd all just end up exhausted and pissed off. “Right!” he announced brightly, clapping his hands. “Star Trek it is. Sammy, get your laptop, I'll get Mr. Barbecue here comfortable.”

“Gross, Dean,” Sam complained, but at least he gave up trying to convince Cas to try to break the spell. “And not Star Trek, we just watched that.”

“Then Highlander, or whatever,” Dean made a shooing motion. “Just go. Find something long and mindless with lots of hot chicks.”

He caught the edge of Sam's smirk as his younger brother left the infirmary. Great. That probably meant one of those boring-ass British melodramas.

That was all right, he considered as he helped stack pillows behind Cas's shoulders so that the angel had a chance of seeing the laptop when Sam brought it back. They could probably all use a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Dean buys all of Cas's clothes. He's been upset that he can only find the shorter trench coats these days, and sometimes it's hard to find the right tie, but Cas just refuses to wear anything else. Sam and Cas both know that Cas could probably mojo up a new outfit (or repair a damaged one), but they just let Dean have his fun.
> 
> The stuff about Sam being vegan because of his experience in hell is headcanon, but I feel like it's something that would happen. Dean doesn't feel the same because he wasn't there as long, and his experience was different. Some of Sam's flashbacks in season six have him hallucinating that he's on fire, so I feel like that could have been something used against him.
> 
> This might be back on hiatus while I work on this year's Whumptober. I have the whole thing planned out and I'm trying to work in advance so I don't fall behind. This means I might be trying to figure out Tumblr to post there, too.
> 
> Stay safe out there! Remember, you don't have to put foundation on your entire face when you wear a mask. That's probably why you keep having breakouts. Also make sure you're using a gentle detergent, the skin on your face is very delicate.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe out there!


End file.
